


Levered

by LibertineQuarantine (elyndys), Missoneminute



Category: The Libertines
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:14:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 70,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23227693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elyndys/pseuds/LibertineQuarantine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missoneminute/pseuds/Missoneminute
Summary: WIP written by a friend.
Relationships: Carl Barat/Pete Doherty
Comments: 80
Kudos: 108
Collections: Peter and Carl fics to lift our spirits during self-isolation





	1. Chapter 1

Peter and Carl has been friends for over two years - a slow-starting but soon enough obsessive, possessive friendship that’d rapidly become the butt of jokes regarding their unusual co-dependence - when the rumours about just how close that bond truly ran finally began to prove true.

Peter hadn't been working particularly hard to hide his gushing infatuation with his beloved Carlos - he openly worshipped the boy, filling his journals with photo after photo of his muse, his mentor, scribbling lovelorn (but never too lovelorn) notes around them, and convincing Carl at every turn that he was the most beautiful, talented and inspiring person he'd ever met, building him up from a scrappy, angry lost boy into the hero he always believed him to be.

Carl's own feelings regarding Peter were more cloaked - he adored him, of course, but he still liked to give off the air of playing older sibling to an irritating, albeit endearing, baby brother. 

The evolution of that bond started innocently enough.

The two of them, in the beginning, spent almost every waking hour together - and in fact, nearly every slumbering hour too, sharing a single mattresses in the equivalent of a basement until they finally found a small, cosy apartment that wasn't an absolute sty.

They were damn near inseparable, even when in the company of others they were difficult to pry apart. There were the handful of hours they worked at various menial jobs that barely paid the rent, when they weren't getting fired that is. Peter more so than Carl often gave up and just collected the dole. He'd spend his free time either embroiled in brief, chaotic love affairs or keenly and impatiently waiting for Carl to get home and resume their adventures.

They'd even chase girls together, too, cheap bottles of liquor tucked under their coats, riding the bus to some club or another looking for conquests. They were charming, gorgeous and funny - but they weren't yet who they'd become, and their girl-chasing missions often ended in them taking the same the bus home together, drunk and cranky.

They'd trudge across their tiny squat and curl up on their single mattress, top to tail, pent up and frustrated. And, some nights, one would wait for the other to fall asleep so they could relieve the tension with a short, cheerless session of self-pleasure.

It was Peter who first began to have guilty daydreams about how those nights could end.

He'd feign sleep every so often, wait deathly still for Carl to give him a gentle shove to make sure he was out cold, and listen, stifling his breath, to those familiar murmurs, that quickening breath, that gentle rustling of the blankets until Carl whimpered, curled up, and snored.

Sometimes, as he silently eavesdropped on these most private moments, back turned, he dared to reach down, into his own underwear, and ever so gently touch his growing erection, somewhat appalled at himself.

Occasionally, he sensed that Carl knew what he was doing - why did he always do it in the bed with Peter right there? But if he did know, he certainly never let on.

Yet Carl was the one who - fairly innocuously - planted the idea in Peter's mind that their closeness could be something other than platonic. He'd quite impulsively and drunkenly planted a surprising kiss on Peter's lips during one of their many see-sawing, late night stumbles home from the pub. It was nothing more than a boisterous, close-mouthed smooch, quickly forgotten, by Carl at least, and it didn't happen when they were alone again, but Peter obsessed over it, and his habit of staying awake and eavesdropping on Carl's private moments only increased in frequency thereafter. But so too did his shame over it.

Peter was genuinely relieved to break that bad habit when they moved to a proper apartment - well, almost proper, one big room with a couch and an old brass bed for Peter, and a makeshift bedroom for Carl that was really a walk-in closet. They were happy in their new digs, though, Carl in particular relishing the (slight) privacy, and Peter began to think that his nocturnal fantasies were little more than cabin fever. At least that was what he told himself.

If anything, his growing infatuation with Carl had only increased, and he'd often find himself staring, dumbstruck, at his friend's beauty, his adoration taking on an increasingly physical gravity. He wanted to touch him - quite a lot more than was necessary.

They were already quite tactile - hugs came often and easily, arms forever draped over each other's shoulders. But Peter was starting to push those boundaries - planting wet, intense kisses on Carl's the cheek, pressing their heads together, laying flirtatiously on his lap. Soon enough they began smooching drunkenly whenever there was a group of girls to entertain - to Carl at least, it was all just silliness.

It was Peter's direct and private affection Carl was wary of, those long embraces when no one was watching, even though he didn't yet admit to himself anything was afoot. Whenever Peter reached for him in a way that seemed deliberately intimate, Carl at first would stiffen and oblige him, but soon he was returning the embraces with equal fervour, and it wasn't long before he was initiating them, too. In particular, Carl would love to curl his head into the nook of Peter's neck, where their height difference naturally planted him, and the drunker he got the more time he'd spend there, his lips sometimes grazing Peter's neck.

It was behaviour those around them found both amusing and suspicious, yet the two of them largely ignored the stares and whispers, too entangled in their own bubble to notice how obvious their attraction to one another had become to anyone paying attention.

Whether they acknowledged it or not, the physical tension between them was undeniably building of it’s own accord. But neither of them seemed to know what to do with it.

It was after an all-night bender, during which they'd kept on their feet thanks to large doses of shitty speed, that their chemistry morphed into something new.

They'd spent the whole weekend raising hell at various bars and friend's houses, Carl managing to solicit a long and sloppy make-out session with a girl he'd met an hour before, the pair of them grinding away on her couch while Peter sat alone in the lasses’ kitchen helping himself to her wine.

But after some sort of minor scuffle over a broken bottle – Peter having broken it, of course – they found themselves ejected back out on the street, alone together, their high quickly dissipating in the wee hours before the dawn. It was time to go home, they decided; maybe actually rehearse their new songs while they were still riding on the last of their buzz.

Once they got back to the flat the electricity was off – yet again, they hadn't paid the metre - and with darkness a good excuse to put off rehearsals another night, all they wanted to do was sleep.

Carl headed straight for Peter's bed, and collapsed on it, pulling Peter down with him in a mock wrestle. He ruffled his hair and smiled a weary smile. "I'm fucked," he slurred. "Can I just sleep here?" Peter's bed was more comfortable, but Carl had never asked to sleep there before - he was too glad to finally have his own space.

Peter just shrugged, feeling oddly delighted, he realised, as Carl peeled off his leather jacket and crashed back onto the bed. It was then that he noticed - all too obvious in Carl's ridiculously tight jeans - that Carl was sporting a not-insignificant erection.

Carl noticed Peter staring right away. "Jesus Peter what are you looking at?" he mumbled, sounding rather drunk, and Peter turned away, flustered. Why was he suddenly feeling so bloody weird? He tried to shake it off. "That bird left me hanging a bit," Carl said by way of explanation, embarrassed despite his intoxication.

"Well you're not sleeping next to me with that. Go back to your own bed and sort yourself out," Peter said, teasing. He was trying to act like it was all just kind of funny, like he wanted Carl to go away, but his mind was firing up with flashes of filthy thoughts. "I'd best, yeah," Carl laughed a mite awkwardly, and began to get off the bed.

Without even knowing why, Peter held his arm out and stopped him, pushing him carefully back down. He felt overtaken, led by an instinct he had no map for. "Or... I could sort it out for you," Peter said as quickly and flippantly as he could muster, but his voice was tellingly raised to a shaky, sing-song pitch. His heart started pounding the moment he said it. He couldn't believe he had said it, in fact.

Startled, Carl met Peter's gaze, eyes narrowing quizzically. "Is he joking?" Carl thought. Peter's mouth was twisted into a teasing smirk but his brown eyes betrayed him. There was fear there, trepidation, but something else too – the slight tremor of a perplexing, animalistic desire.

Carl broke their uncertain eye contact and looked at the ceiling, examining the shadowy outlines of the peeling paint, unable to move. "Ah..." he started with a nervous laugh. He let the question hang in the air a moment.

Carl wasn't sure if it was the booze, the speed, or the pang of arousal shooting down his belly and to his groin, but the idea felt enticingly illicit. Carl knew if he fobbed Peter off even a little, the offer would disappear and they'd never speak of it again. And yet he wasn't sure that's what he wanted.

He became uncontrollably nervous, his heart racing quicker by the second till it was pounding as hard as Peter's beside him. The moment was rapidly passing. Carl had no idea why - but he seized it. "Go on then," he mumbled, still staring skywards, not fully in control of his facilities.

Carl felt Peter's body sharply shift away, just an in inch. In truth, Peter was surprised. He really didn't expect Carl to say yes. He hadn't thought that far ahead. But Peter’s terse little movement sent Carl’s mind reeling. "Aw fuck, he was joking," he thought. But when he looked down to again meet Peter's eyes, his mouth curling into a forced smile, expecting to have to find a way to make this all one big lark, Carl caught a glimpse of Peter cautiously hovering his big, soft hand over Carl's belt, brushing it's buckle with the very tips of fingers. Christ, Carl realised, he was actually going to do it.

Carl's eyes shot straight back up to the ceiling and his body tensed up. Peter was watching him from the corner of his eye, not betraying his acute awareness of Carl's response to his touch. Pretending not to notice. Then Carl felt it - Peter's slightly shaky hands undoing the belt, unzipping his fly. He tried not to shudder - from excitement, from terror. "What the fuck am I doing?" he thought.

His concentration was quickly quashed by the feeling of Peter's long fingers, gently grazing his quickly growing erection over the fabric of his underwear. His breath caught in his throat, and Carl’s body melted into something like a craving. It felt good, it felt odd, and he knew then that he didn't want it to stop.

Peter was searching further now, running his hand along Carl's belly, his fingers slipping under the elastic of his underwear, one hand pulling them down just a little. Sliding Carl’s shirt up to his waist, eagerly exposing the clean lines of his jutting hips.

Carl tried to suppress a shiver as Peter withdrew his hand, licked it, then that hand was back inside his underwear, it's vague dampness gripping tenderly around Carl's now thoroughly erect cock. He was awash with nerves, but Carl’s pleasure was undeniable: his whole body set alight the moment Peter’s hand made contact. "Fuck," he said so very quietly.

But Peter's hands were freezing, and after just a quick moment of strange pleasure, he couldn't help but giggle and wriggle away. "Your hand's so fucking cold!" he whined. Peter laughed, and for a moment, the spell waned. This was his best friend doing this. This wasn't a stranger, and this certainly wasn’t a girl. This was bloody Peter with his hand down his pants.

Before the thought sent him spinning, and damn near caused him to cry out, "stop," Peter grasped Carl’s cock firmly, more confidently, and picked up the pace. Electricity rocketed up Carl's spine. The strokes fell into a rhythm, fast and distinctly erotic. He barely stifled a groan, trying in vain to stay completely silent, the rapid rise and fall of his slightly arched rib cage betraying him. 

Peter shifted and lay down along Carl's side, his tilted head resting on Carl's chest, propped up on one arm while eagerly pleasuring his friend with the other. All the while stealing glances upwards at Carl’s face in the throes, trying not to look too long when he just wanted to stare – at Carl’s open mouth, at his blinking eyes, even his nostrils flaring with the signs of pleasure he could tell Carl was holding back.

As Peter's hand worked fast against his rapidly warming skin, the facade of reluctance Carl’s mind was clinging to vanished - he felt overcome, felt like bucking against Peter's hand, grabbing him by the hair, pushing Peter's mouth down on his cock and… Carl stopped himself, humiliated at his own thoughts. Where the hell was this coming from?

His mind was racing, his body aching, but he didn't dare move, didn't dare call out. Only the slight murmur with each breath betrayed the pleasure he was feeling. His arms lay rigid by his sides, and his eyes, now glazing, fixed on the shut-off light bulb dangling above his head. He didn't risk closing them, though he wanted to. Something about shutting his eyes seemed too lost in the moment, enjoying this too much. So the ceiling it was.

"This doesn’t mean anything," he assured himself in vain, as Peter's hand worked it's magic with quick, deft strokes. But no sooner had the thought crossed Carl's mind that he felt Peter shift upwards, his nose now nuzzling against his neck, his face burrowing into Carl's tangled hair. Then Peter's lips, grazing his neck, with soft, open-mouthed kisses, his hot breath sending erotic shivers through Carl's body so intense that the struggled to hold them in. Instinctively, he tilted his head against Peter's, as he so liked to do.

Peter was lost in the moment now, letting out little sighs of his own pleasure as his lips met Carl's soft skin over and over again. Those little kisses moved from Carl's neck, to the very tip of his earlobe, Peter's breath in Carl's ear causing his toes to curl. 

Peter's lips kept travelling, trailing along Carl's cheek until he was kissing the corner of Carl's mouth with tentative pecks. "He's not going to kiss me?" Carl thought, slightly alarmed. They'd by then of course kissed before - closed-mouthed smooches on the lips, silly rock 'n' roll posturing - almost always for the benefit of onlookers.

Then there were Peter’s lingering kisses on the cheek, cuddles where they pressed their heads together and Carl felt Peter's breath on his lips, before he inevitably pulled away. Instead of tempting fate by hovering too close to Peter's mouth, he would nudge his way into that little nook between Peter's neck and shoulder, their chemistry sizzling with nowhere to go. But a kiss on the mouth while being tossed off by your best friend? That was something else.

Carl couldn't think clearly now though. Peter’s hand was working his cock without restraint – his own nerves having dissolved into something much closer to excitement. Carl could feel his orgasm rapidly building and he knew he was going to come at any moment. As waves of agonising arousal rumbled towards their crescendo, he let go and emitted an open-mouthed moan, all his reserve shattered as his back arched, release imminent. His eyes finally clamped shut.

It was then that Peter's mouth came crashing down on his, hungry, at first just his pouting, girlish lips, and then his tongue, curling teasingly into Carl's mouth until Carl, wrapped up in the moment, returned it's depth and kissed him, really kissed him back. He'd barely registered the pleasure of it - of Peter's tongue connecting with his, boozy and sweet, before he was coming, hard and hot, his whole body shaking, his repetitive little groans driving Peter to absolute distraction.

Carl tore himself away from Peter's mouth just as a gush of warm, sticky liquid raced up over Peter's still-clasped hand and onto Carl's taut belly. He sighed so heavily, his body weakening. Peter didn't dare linger - he let him go, sliding his wet hand away, discreetly grinding it clean in the sheets, and retreated to his side of the bed.

They lay in silence for a moment, neither moving an inch, Carl still exposed, his jeans at his thighs. Peter glanced at him laying that way, glistening wetness on his torso, so open and vulnerable, so beautiful - but only for a split second.

He couldn't quite believe what had happened - he'd thrown himself so blindly into it - but somehow it felt exhilarating. It was then that Carl raised his hands to his face, covering his eyes. The room, the situation, Peter beside him - all spinning back into cold, post-orgasmic clarity. 

Peter knew to back away, now, in these volatile moments while Carl steeled himself to process what they'd done. Quickly busying himself looking for cigarettes and a lighter on the bedside table, Peter made sure to avoid Carl's eyes as his friend rapidly wiped away the evidence with his shirt and pulled up his pants.

Sitting up, Peter lit two cigarettes, and handed one to Carl. With quivering hands he tried to steady, Carl accepted it and took a long drag, tucking one arm behind his head on the pillow - performing a false casualness that pitifully failed to conceal his genuine unease. 

Now Peter had his own raging erection to deal with, and he would have loved to have the favour returned. But he knew that wasn't going to be on the cards, not tonight, not with Carl.

"Do you want a drink?" Peter asked instead. "There's still a Guinness in the fridge". Carl jumped a tad at the question, momentarily thinking Peter might try to force him to discuss what had just happened between them. "Yeah why not," he answered, a little too forced, and Peter went to grab it, their last, solitary can, something to take the edge off this intense situation. Plus Peter had an excuse to walk off and adjust his throbbing crotch as best he could.

The beer wasn't in the fridge of course, it was standing lukewarm on the counter. Ah well. He came back with the can, calmly cracked it open, and handed it to his friend. "Ducking to the bathroom," he said, leaving Carl in bed, supping on the tin.

It couldn't be helped - Peter had to relieve his painful predicament, and lying in bed next to Carl wasn't going to do it. As soon as the door to the filthy bathroom was shut, Peter took to his task with aggression, his hand still sticky from its unexpected adventure. 

So entirely, achingly aroused he was, that he came in seconds, harder and more intensely than he could remember doing so in recent years, all the while holding in an eye-watering gasp that threatened to escape his lips and give him away. In moments he was mopping himself off and flushing the loo repeatedly for effect before slamming the door a bit too obviously.

Gingerly, Peter padded across the flat and returned to Carl's side on the crumpled mattress, sitting a little further away than he needed to, hoping that even in the dark, his flushed cheeks weren't a dead give-away. He was convinced Carl knew exactly what he'd done in there - but he was wrong. Carl hadn't yet twigged regarding Peter's feelings for him - he supposed he was just romantic about everything, and he didn't find it all that strange that Peter, so enamoured with pushing boundaries, of living his liberal philosophy to the hilt, would offer such a transgression, especially drunk as he was. Still, it felt strangely thrilling in a way he couldn't yet grasp.

Carl handed the beer, still a mite shakily, back to Peter. "It's bloody warm," he complained. Peter shrugged and took a long sip. The tension in the air was ridiculous. Peter grasped for a way to break it when…"Alright then, Pigman?" Carl mumbled, avoiding his eyes, cigarette between his lips, ash flaking as it jutted. Peter reached out and lightly swept the ash off Carl's shirt as Carl looked dead ahead, a crack of pre-dawn blue light creeping across his face, and the room. "Yeah, we're grand Biggles," Peter answered. Carl nodded, ice broken, smiling his sideways smile, just a fraction.

Cigarette still planted in his mouth, Carl leapt off the bed and towards the record player, putting on a track that, after a few terse moments of eyeing each other cautiously, had them signing along and laughing at the same jokes they'd told dozens of times. It was a comforting comedy routine they so often fell back on.

They passed the last of the beer back and forth and, as sun began to stream through the windows, a bemused look lit up Carl's face. He shook his head, and reached out to ruffle Peter's hair. "Cheeky sod," Carl said, shoving Peter gently. Peter smiled, his big eyes shining. He knew those two little words were loaded with meaning, and he knew this was all the discussion they'd have on the matter. Peter also knew, in his heart, that this wouldn't be the last time something like this happened between them.

But for now, everything was alright, and it was enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Several weeks had passed since Peter had made Carl a forbidden offer in the hazy dawn, kissed him so deeply and passionately, and made him come. He thought of it often, and most often when he was alone in their cramped bathroom, working off his sexual frustration, or when he could get enough privacy, curled up in bed extinguishing that morning's insistent erection. 

The two of them had fallen back into their usual intimacy - overly frequent hugs and drunken pecks, embraces that crackled with promise but ended in a playful shove.

Peter had tried to push those boundaries in the ensuing weeks. Holding on too long to their cuddles, murmuring and nuzzling all the while in a hopeful fashion, pressing his lower body a little too close as they embraced, dispensing long, open-mouthed kisses hotly against Carl’s cheek, praying for a spontaneous snog. All of it went nowhere, and to Peter, Carl appeared entirely unaware that he was the object of Peter’s persistent affections. 

Out of frustration, Peter finally made something of a move. Sitting by Carl, casually cuddling on the couch and sipping tea as they watched TV, he gently slid his hand off Carl's waist, down to his belly, onto his belt, and had hoped to drop it down further still. Without acknowledging him, without altering his facial expression at all, Carl calmly lifted Peter's arm and returned it to his side, only to find an excuse to get off the couch moments later. The message was clear: Carl wasn't looking to repeat their experience. At least, not now, and certainly not sober. 

Carl was not oblivious to Peter's schoolboyish attempts at seduction, but for now, he pretended to be. In fact those petulant, handsy moments had left little doubt in Carl's mind that Peter's feelings for him had developed at least somewhat beyond the platonic. He now suspected the night Peter offered so casually to get him off wasn't just some moment of drunken insanity, nor yet another example of Peter's inherent and morally loose insistence on pushing any boundary he faced. Peter seemed to have done it, Carl surmised, with a jolt of uneasy excitement, simply because he wanted to. 

But Carl couldn't decide what his own feelings were on the matter. If he was just flattered, in need of exactly that sort of attention to strengthen his often wilting self-esteem, if it was just his ego inflated by Peter's fawning adoration as it always had been, or if there was something deeper twisting in that intense chemistry between them that was becoming mutual. 

The whole hornets-nest of options left him feeling anxious and defensive, and so he vowed simply to do what he did best - shut his feelings down and avoid thinking about it completely. But it wasn't that simple, really, because despite himself Carl was being increasingly propelled by a desire he didn't yet have a language for. The less he tried to think about it, the more he acted on it, becoming ever more tactile and clingy with Peter with each passing day. 

Peter on the other hand was unsatisfied by nearing closer to Carl in merely a sordid, hedonistic way, and even less so with a brotherly one. It wasn’t about just getting off, and it wasn’t just about friendship. He'd been allowing himself to openly daydream about it being just the two of them. No girls, no excuses, just them together, exploring what that might mean. 

But if Carl wanted the same thing, he was sending mixed signals at best. It was most often Carl who reached out to Peter for an embrace, who hugged him first, kissed his forehead, doubly so if he was drunk. It was Carl, too, who’d wrestle Peter to the ground and pin him there with a cruelly erotic grinding of his hips, eyes brightly gauging Peter’s response, before reaching out an arm and helping him up, as if it was all just a slightly incestuous game. 

But it also had to be boisterous and easily written off with a matey slap on the back. Those seemed to be the rules. Carl would quickly extinguish any interaction that felt a little too close, a little too uncontrollable. As if he enjoyed the attention, the affection, but only on his own, vain terms, dismissive of the fact that in recent weeks, their friendship was morphing into one big tease. 

Peter knew their brief moments teetering on the edge of taboo turned Carl on, at least some of the time - he'd felt, and seen, the alluring outline of Carl's erection in his jeans on more than one occasion when he got up from one of their playful wrestling sessions. He didn't really try to hide it either, which Peter found confusing. 

Even some of their more serious fights had an oddly erotic charge - they'd smack each other, fall to the floor, roll around, twist each other's arms, their punches weakening as the energy of their closeness morphed into a different kind of aggression. There were moments where, to put it bluntly, one or the other felt like pinning his friend to the ground and, in vicious retaliation, fucking him none too gently. But of course, those transient thoughts were quickly shaken off by both of them, and with more than a little shame. 

Peter soon enough found himself more feeling defeated than elated by Carl's hot and cold teasing. But it was precisely when he'd begun to give up hope that they'd ever revisit that blissful dawn, when it’d been just the two of them in each other’s arms, that the opportunity arose again. 

Peter had sat home alone, strumming his guitar, crestfallen, if he was honest, that Carl had spent the entire night out getting wasted with his gaggle of new friends. In recent weeks it was becoming a more frequent occurrence: Peter sulking with his journals and half-written songs waiting for Carl to arrive home, too often with a girl (or a rabble of drunk strangers) in tow, inevitably leading to a row. Worse yet, sometimes he'd just be gone for days. 

But on this night, the clock had just passed 4am when Carl stumbled through the door, alone, fall-down drunk and seemingly sullen. Peter was pretty tipsy too - he'd downed a bottle of dirt-cheap, stomach-churning wine alone, and was well into another.

Carl smashed through the house, tripping over the scattered books and records and empty bottles, and slumped next to Peter on the couch, collapsing with his head on Peter's lap just as Peter snatched his guitar out of the way in time. 

It was then that Peter saw that Carl was hurt - one cheek was a tad scraped, clearly from skidding along the pavement, and a trickle of blood had dried around his nose. "Get in a fight?" Peter asked, stroking his friend's hair. "Don-wanna-talk-bout-it," Carl mumbled, his words mashed together. "Serves you right for leaving me here alone, again, just like every other…" Peter began to chide, but stopped sharply when he realised Carl was slowly, but unmistakably, nuzzling the unharmed side of his face against Peter's crotch.

Peter sat deathly still, wondering if Carl had any idea what he was doing. He was rubbing his crotch with his... face? Really? Oh Jesus Christ, Peter thought, Carl was truly seconds away from having something rather prominent to rub it against. 

Luckily - or maybe not - Carl wasn’t down there long. Grasping onto Peter's shoulders, climbing up him like a drunken monkey, Carl dragged himself face to face with Peter, and kissed him. Just like that. 

A quick kiss at first, his lips cold from the night air, then he pulled back, his blood shot eyes full of drunken desire, and planted a second kiss - deeper, wetter this time.

Peter felt a delicious burst of joy as Carl's tongue skidded along his, and he noticed now that Carl's lip was cut, too - the metallic flavour of his blood overpowered by the sweetness of tobacco and whiskey as their spit mingled, mouths locked and warming.

Carl reached up carefully and held onto Peter’s face with both his hands, pulling him gently out of their kiss, and steadied his woozy head. "I’m battered," Carl said tenderly. "Take me to bed". Peter’s heart skipped a literal beat at the implication. Truly, he felt it - the dizzying sensation of oxygen leaving his lungs and blood halted mid flow. Carl gauged that reaction, he read it clearly in Peter’s comically startled, flushed face, and he smiled a stupid, drunken smile that made Peter just want to die on the spot. This was beautiful. 

Up they went and Peter led Carl, stumbling all the way, to his bed, letting him crash heavily into the sheets. Peter had to busy himself while he worked out what Carl even wanted to happen next. So Peter took off Carl's shoes, and after a prolonged effort got him out of his jeans, glancing only briefly at the minor bulge in his underwear before lifting Carl’s swaying body with one arm and peeling him out of his too-tight leather jacket with the other. Leaving Carl only in his thin, torn shirt and underwear. Peter threw his blankets over his sweet boy, tucked him in, though was he supposed to? Should he get in too? He didn’t know. It was his own bed after all, he could just get in, surely? But Peter felt he needed some sort of invitation to make it clear. 

"Peter," came the slurred plea from the dark. "I'm lonely. I want a cuddle". Peter looked down at his helpless, bloodied friend, and felt a gush of affection. He couldn’t stop smiling, though he tried. He was violently more excited than he'd admit to himself. "Alright Biggles," Peter answered cheerily, so very eagerly stripping off his trousers and shoes, bouncing along as he climbed in beside Carl and kicked his way under the sheets. 

Immediately Carl rolled wearily towards Peter and wrapped himself around him, arm around Peter's waist, draping his legs over Peter’s calves, tucking his face in the nook of his neck, like he loved to do; his lovely, dirty hair laying across Peter's cheek, and he lay there, dozing. 

Peter has no thought of drifting off himself, although he was comforted by the warmth and closeness of laying tangled up in Carl's warm body. “He’s not just going to sleep, is he?” Peter wondered, disappointment creeping forth like a very mean tide. Peter’s concern had only just arisen when it was dispelled - Carl pulled himself up, clamouring along Peter’s chest in a sloppy, slightly painful fashion, and without hesitation, he planted a wet kiss on Peter’s mouth - an open, easy kiss, the kind of kiss that knows it’s wanted. 

Carl's mouth was too inviting, too soft, too full of the aching desire Peter had held asunder for months. The sheer offering of it, the availability. It was overwhelming. This was the sweetest kiss in the world, in that moment Peter was sure of it. 

Their kissing rapidly intensified - their tongues lapping, mouths mashing together, teeth colliding, biting each other's lips, Carl's blood mingling with their spit. 

Slowly, Peter felt Carl press closer against him, until their legs were again entwined, their hips jutting against each other. Their crotches pushed firmly together, their mutual arousal now evident. 

They continued on like this for some time - kissing, grinding against each other, their skinny legs tangled, their feet curling, toes touching.

Then Peter felt Carl grab his arm, not at all gently, and guide it gruffly towards his now prominent erection. 

Peter resisted for a moment, pulling his arm away against Carl's grip. What happens in the morning? Would they just ignore it like they did last time?

He didn't think on it much longer. Carl tried again - impatiently yanking Peter's hand into his underwear and all the way down onto his cock, letting out a loud sigh when Peter's fingers made contact, and with that he forced his tongue into Peter’s mouth. This is bloody brilliant, Peter thought. 

Peter began to do as he did last time - starting with slow, gentle strokes and working up to fast, aggressive ones as Carl breathed heavily, his moans reverberating in Peter's mouth between insistent kisses. It went on for several minutes, Peter growing more confident in his abilities the louder and snarlier Carl got. Then the kissing abruptly ended. 

"No…" Carl said suddenly, and Peter stopped dead, snapping his hand away, leaving it raised mid-air as if in surrender. "Sorry, did you not want...” he started fumbling, unsure what he’d done wrong, but Carl interrupted him. 

"No, I don’t mean… I want... do it with your mouth,” he slurred, mumbling the astoundingly awkwardly-worded request as quickly as he could, clearly embarrassed to ask, even drunk as he was. 

Peter thought very briefly that only Carl could make a request so intimate in such a completely embarrassing and nonsensical fashion. But his amusement died in a gulp of anxiety, and then something else, something bigger, took hold. Peter felt above all else a nerve-racking pang of arousal at the request. He knew he probably shouldn't, but almost immediately, he knew he would. He wanted to, with desire rocketing him so enormously forward that turning the offer down wasn't an option. 

"Are you sure?" Peter asked anyway, chiding himself internally for just how high-pitched and excited his voice sounded. Carl said nothing and instead, placed his hands on Peter's shoulders and began pushing him downwards. 

Peter couldn’t help it - he laughed, just a touch, at Carl’s eagerness. He hesitantly slid along Carl's body, and before he could second-guess himself, pulled down Carl’s underwear, all the way to this thighs, quick like a bandaid, exposing him to the icy night air. He dared just a moment's glance at his nudity before he took him in his mouth. 

Carl let out a low moan, very vaguely tinged with surprise, his head lolling sideways against the pillow, his hands shooting down onto Peter's head, into his hair. 

Peter had thought about this - sure. As he'd run through various erotic daydreams in his mind, it was there. Not with Carl, necessarily, but just, there, like it had always been part of the further reaches of his mind. He was never entirely sure if he could do it, and had always wondered if the realm of abstract fantasy is where it'd stay. 

But now he was faced with actually doing it, so he figured he'd best concentrate on the task and make it worth the inevitable awkwardness that would arise between them when they were both stone cold sober tomorrow. Besides, something about it all was giving him an uninhibited thrill that felt so very intense, and so very right. 

Peter began slowly licking up and down, teasing, then easing his mouth down as deep as he could go without gagging, dragging his mouth back up and open and then licking and teasing again. 

Despite his dedication, Peter quickly realised he had no real idea what he was doing, even though he had assumed it would come fairly naturally. But he found himself excited by the sweaty, boyish masculinity of the taste, the scent… it was like something he remembered but had never experienced. Something addicting.

He was going slow, trying to do it the way he liked it done, with girls he had to politely instruct, or more often, who politely instructed him. Carl was soon having none of it. Clearly impatient, and clearly in want of a quick, dirty orgasm, Carl grabbed hold of Peter's hair harder, gripping his head with both hands, accidentally tearing a few strands in the process, and began bucking into Peter's mouth with rough, rapid pumps, scarcely allowing Peter a moment for breath. 

Carl was moaning now, unashamedly, panting in rhythm with his indelicate thrusts. Peter felt his eyes water, then spill down his cheeks, but he was determined to let Carl set the pace, no matter how brutal. After all, he could feel far more blameless in this scenario when Carl was the one mercilessly shagging his face. 

And fuck, it was turning him on like mad, he realised: the rhythmic, upward swish of Carl’s slim hips, the oceanic motion of the bed, creaking in time, the force of those pretty hands in his hair and then the realisation - the gorgeous, filthy realisation that he had a cock sliding into his mouth, down into his throat, and every wet, gargled sound he made as Carl moved through him in this uncharted, intimate way was the sexiest thing he’d ever experienced. 

Several more hard thrusts skidded between his lips when Peter began to taste on his tongue those little salty droplets that surely indicated he was about to get a mouthful. He was filled instantly with a heady mix of excitement and trepidation. What was he meant to do with it, exactly? 

It took only a split second to decide it was best to just let it happen - and Carl's vice-like grip on his head wasn't abating anyway. 

He'd barely processed the thought when Carl let out a guttural, thoroughly instinctual moan and Peter felt him coming, felt the strangeness of Carl’s cock jerking in his throat, along his tongue, as a warm jet of liquid filled Peter's mouth and, after a moment, as Carl pulled away from him, trailing along on his lips. 

It was a shock to the system, almost, Peter thought quickly - the thick torrent of wetness he was forced to swallow by the force of sheer propulsion, the intimate, primal, sexual taste of it - somehow, it was all ridiculously, insanely erotic. 

Peter felt like it shouldn't be, like it should have felt wrong or shameful or just strange, as everything more or less had leading up to it. But all Peter could think in those dying seconds of the act was that he wanted more, and not just today or tonight. In that same instant he already knew, already feared, he was going to have to fight to get it. 

Carl relaxed, one arm falling to his side, the other scooping Peter upwards and planting a sloppy kiss on his sticky mouth. Then he kissed him again, more deeply this time, unexpectedly excited in his murky drunken haze by tasting a trace of his own fluids on Peter's lips. 

The kiss dropped off Peter's mouth along with Carl's head into the pillow. He was finally still, and it was over. Carl let Peter go, pulled the blanket up to his waist, and closed his eyes. 

And there was Peter, stuck with a throbbing boner, once again. 

He decided to chance it. He'd just done something with his best friend he never supposed he'd do with anyone, so he figured it wouldn't be insane to ask for a little back. 

"Can I kiss you while I sort this out?" Peter said quickly, motioning at the erection straining in his underwear. Carl, clearly sleepy now, cracked open his heavy eyes, peered squintingly at said raging boner with vague bemusement, and just nodded, sloppily clamping his mouth onto Peter's, his tongue rolling inside Peter’s mouth lazily. 

But for the occasional effort of gently biting Peter's lips, Carl was doing a rather sloppy job of kissing him in general. Peter didn't care - he just wanted his mouth, and to get this done quickly. Peter reached down and began pleasuring himself, as fast as he could, seeing as he was fairly sure Carl was about to nod off, and the smoky taste of Carl's spit, his whiskey-soaked tongue, his licks and bites, were all making what would otherwise be a perfunctory task deliciously erotic. 

But Carl wasn't quite as down for the count as Peter expected, and, as he lost himself in the rhythm of his own hand and the smacking of Carl's lips against his, Peter was taken aback to feel Carl's hand slide across his belly and towards his crotch. Peter didn't hesitate - he was too worked up, and this was just too perfect. He grabbed Carl's searching fingers and wrapped them around his cock, clamping his own hand on top of Carl's, and began to move it quickly up and down. 

The sensation of Carl's dainty fingers, however limp and booze-weary, around him as he worked up to orgasm was just too delightful. He was lost now, just feeling those fingers - the impression of each individual one pressing down on his most tender skin, delicately touching him somewhere so private. His mind twirling, Peter was panting his soft, boyish moans into Carl's mouth one after the other in endless procession. 

"God this is nice," Peter thought, somewhat innocently - and it was then Carl pressed down, the fingers wrapped around Peter’s cock becoming tight and firm, the strokes persistent and assured, and Peter let go, dropped his hands to his sides, and let Carl take over. It was pure delirium. 

That’s precisely why it was over fast. Peter’s pleasure very suddenly built to a molten, powerful peak, his torso flew up, his back arched involuntarily, and he came, searingly hard, with a half-cried, half-whispered, "fuuck" - thoroughly soaking the bandana wrapped around Carl's wrist in the process. 

"Fucking great," an irritated Carl slurred, shaking his hand free a touch sooner than Peter would have liked, and in his stupor, rather ineffectively wiping the moisture off in the sheets. Then Carl rolled onto his back, already dozing. 

So that was that. 

Peter had lain there for a few minutes, smiling dumbly, elated and a tad shaken, when he realised he ought to pull Carl's underwear back on to spare Carl the awkwardness of waking up next to him near-naked. He hopped up and lovingly dressed his wilted, grumbling friend and tucked him into the comfier side of the somewhat lumpy bed. 

He also made an attempt to finish cleaning up Carl's bandana, to little avail, not least because half-asleep Carl swatted him off. 

Somehow, he'd explain this all in the morning. He got in next to his beautiful, sleeping boy, and lay beside him admiring his slender chest, his bony rib cage, rising up and down with alcohol-laboured breaths, as his own eyes grew heavy and the world went black. 

************

"Oy! Wake up," came a voice from the gloom, and with it, painful light. The heavy curtains in the room were still drawn, but a razor sharp crack of white noon sunlight had crept through and found its way directly into the path of Peter's blinking eyes. 

"Wake up," the voice said again. Carl's voice, and now a nudge in the ribs. "Ow, fuck off!" Peter yelped, rolling onto his side to see a clearly irritated Carl sitting up in bed next to him, his head in his hands. "Get up Pigman. Get me some water," Carl said. "Get it yourself," Peter snapped, rolling back over, away from the light. 

"Least you can do," Carl mumbled. Peter froze. "Fuck, that's right," he remembered. Getting up slowly, Peter's head spun, and he realised he was far drunker last night as he thought his was. "Alright then!" he answered, trying to sound casually annoyed. "My head's killing me as well". 

Peter hoisted himself up and scampered around the kitchen looking for some clean glasses, but the best he could do was rinse out some brown-stained teacups. He padded back and handed the cleaner of the two to Carl, and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, sipping the lukewarm water. There was a long, anxious silence as they both drank the off-putting liquid like medicine.

"I know what will help," Peter said, and dug around for Carl’s small bag of weed and a couple rolling papers in the bedside drawer. He concentrated on rolling the joint as Carl sipped, eyes cast downwards. Peter soon had it lit and offered it to his horrifically hung-over friend. "Ta," Carl said, taking a drag. 

Another few moments of silence passed as they shared the joint back and forth. "Shall I go out for provisions?" Peter asked coolly, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Hair of the dog and all that?" Carl just nodded, so Peter began to get dressed and fussed around collecting the scatterings of change in his various pants pockets as he did. 

"Why'd you let me do that. Last night," Carl said suddenly, his tone far from forgiving. 

"Ah shit, he’s seething," Peter thought, and stumbled over his answer, panicking. "We were steaming drunk. Just forget it," Peter answered as dismissively as he could muster, still shaking coins out of a crumpled suit. 

He was relieved at least, that Carl hadn't phrased it as, "why did you do that to me last night". It was of small comfort, however. Peter's attempt at indifference didn’t work one bit. Carl genuinely looked like he wanted to belt him. 

One wrong word and Peter knew it would make this volatile situation explosive. He wasn't going to get a smile and a scruff of the hair this time. Things had gone further, and it meant more. It meant… something. They both knew it. But Peter also knew for certain that it was something Carl wasn't ready to deal with. 

It was then he noticed that Carl was irritably unfurling the stained bandana from his wrist. He threw it at Peter, but fell short by several metres. "You're washing that," he muttered, words clipped and terse. Peter picked it up off the floor and dutifully walked it over to the already heaving laundry basket by the bathroom door. 

He felt panicky - a confrontation was brewing. He considered just bolting out the door and letting the conversation die in the air. But he found himself walking back over to Carl. Neither of them spoke. 

Carl glared at Peter for a moment, a flashing anger in his pale blue eyes. Then his shoulders fell. He didn't want to fight. Not about this. If he ignored it, it would just go away. At least, that’s what he’d told himself thus far. Yet here they were. 

"Just get some beer. And get me a banana. Two in fact," Carl said instead, tension easing. Peter nodded, his mouth pouting, obviously relieved. He pulled on his coat, and took off down the stairs, handful of coins jangling in his fist. 

He didn't have nearly enough money. He was going to have to nick the bloody bananas.


	3. Chapter 3

To Peter's surprise - and his delight - rather than pulling back, Carl seemed to become more affectionate towards him after that night, as if he just couldn't help himself. Whatever anger he’d harboured the morning after seemed to be overwritten by an increasingly frequent, playful flirtation. 

The pair of them were now near-constantly finding excuses to touch each other. Cuddles for the smallest kindness, Carl's arms so often outstretched for hugs. Arms locked around each other's shoulders at the local boozer, talking conspiratorially, their foreheads pressed together and their lips inches apart. 

Kicks and slaps followed by laughter, little tiffs that ended in play fights and hilarity before they pushed each other against a wall or onto the couch and exchanged looks charged with lust, hanging there just a little longer than necessary, panting, eyes locked. 

They'd walk arm in arm down the street, gazing at each other every few steps, stupid with affection. Push each other, piggy back each other, dance together - a twirl round the kitchen, a comical waltz past the couch, gripping hands or fingers for just for a moment or two. Well you had to hold hands to dance, didn’t you, Carl told himself. 

To a casual observer, they looked very much like lovers, utterly smitten and caught in the glow of a particularly blissful honeymoon period. 

They hadn't been back to bed together, not for anything other than the occasional nap briefly prefaced by a cuddle, but Peter didn't mind so much. 

He was enjoying this newly forged togetherness, and was overjoyed that Carl was forgoing many of his frequent benders in favour of all-night writing sessions, just the two of them and their guitars on the floor, slamming out tune after tune by candlelight, Peter diligently jotting it all down in his notebooks. 

Many nights as sunrise threatened to arrive, they'd take off into the last of the dark, into the sleeping city's winter air, stretching their legs with a stroll by the river, talking a million miles an hour, planning, dreaming, smoke streaming into the air. 

Other times they'd take their guitars onto some abandoned rooftop or other, and play to each other all night, their quiet clapping as loud as any amphitheatre in their minds. 

On nights they felt guilty for not having written enough or not tried hard enough to practice, they distracted one another instead, drunkenly breaking into empty stadiums and acting out mangled parts of plays they half-remembered, mixed in with their own weird little skits. Making one another howl until they'd hear the distant echoing jangle of a security guard's keys and flee into the approaching dawn. 

They were too much inside it to truly see how their friendship had taken a distinctly romantic turn. The poems they recited to each other lost their academic, completive air and became lovelorn sonnets for one another, often leaving them both on the verge of tears when they read aloud a particularly emotive line or two. 

Their conversations, always so lively, began to circle increasingly around a sense that the two of them were each other's destiny, and that everything they hoped for was tied up in each other. 

They were each equally emboldened by the sheer joy of the world they were creating, together, and there was a surging sense of promise, of grandness, to it all. 

It took almost two years to happen, for the bubble to grow around them and a whole world with it, but when it did, it felt sudden, even though it wasn't at all. It was more like something they'd planted the day they met finally had the audacity to grow. 

A few weeks - although it felt like months - after that monumental night of transgression, the pair of them had decided to brave the bone-chilling cold and stroll by the water for no reason other than it felt like a brave and romantic thing to do. 

They stood by the water’s edge, the winter wind viciously whipping at the edges of Peter's coat, and Carl became aware that Peter was shivering so violently that it had become difficult for him to speak. 

"Come here," Carl said, opening his own coat for Peter to climb into. Peter smiled and curled into him, wrapping his arms around his waist. Carl closed his little jacket around them both as best he could. 

They stood there like that for a long time - Carl's face buried in Peter's neck, one hand stroking his back to warm him. Peter's mouth and nose gently rubbing against Carl's forehead. 

Carl stared out at the black water, holding on, feeling Peter’s shivers slowing. The night was silent, was no one else around at all - it felt life the whole city was abandoned. Like they were the only two people left alive. 

Peter looked down at his friend, his cheeks red with cold. Carl looked back up at him, a shaky, watery emotion suspended in this eyes that Peter immediately understood. He felt it too.

"You look so beautiful," Peter said lyrically, his voice blown out to a whisper by the breeze. Carl responded with a shy half-laugh. 

Peter flew along with the moment the same way the river air around his coat did, recklessly, a force of nature. He broke their embrace, reached his freezing fingers up to take Carl's face in his hands, and, after a small pause in which he gauged Carl’s resistance – and found none - he planted a slow, sweet kiss on his lips. Just a soft one, just a shallow one, just lips parting and meeting, no more than that, at first. Careful, precise. 

But Carl didn't tense up, he didn't fight, he didn't push Peter away. He knew it was coming. From the moment they stood at the water’s edge he felt it moving towards them, rolling in, tidal, and he wanted it too. He just shut his eyes and disappeared completely into Peter's mouth, letting the kiss deepen, a small murmur of pleasure dying in his throat as it did. 

It was just a kiss, and it lasted a mere minute. But they were languidly giving themselves over to a moment that would stay with them always thereafter. It would arise in poems, be torn out of diaries, etch its way into songs. It would last. 

When they broke apart, smiling shyly, laughing a little awkwardly, despite the crisp, dark night and the damp air enveloping them, they both felt warm.


	4. Chapter 4

In the days after that kiss by river, all Peter could think about was kissing. They’d done more already of course - but they’d never done anything as pure, as rawly emotional, as sober, as that kiss. It meant more than the rest, he decided, because it was so simple, so mutual. An uncomplicated emotion in a very complicated situation. 

That one little kiss was proof, too, that all the breathless emotion blossoming in Peter’s chest every time he met Carl’s eyes was growing inside them both. It was proof he wasn’t alone in this. That Carl felt the same way, no matter how many miles he was from overtly expressing it. 

Kissing Carl, that was all Peter could bloody well think about. Every waking moment he was with him, Peter fixated on Carl’s mouth. He watched his lips move as he spoke, the fluid way they danced when he sang. Watched them curl in anger, his jagged teeth bared, or part widely in laughter. No matter what Carl’s mouth was doing, Peter was imagining his own mouth pressing against it. In some of his madder moments he lusted even after Carl’s spit, he thought of the taste of it - the way it was always his, always the taste of Carl, even when the acetone sharpness of booze or the dry char of cigarettes was mixed though it. 

Peter wasn’t sure how to make Carl kiss him - all of Peter’s obvious fawning and staring and cuddling and nuzzling didn’t automatically result in the desired outcome. Carl kept dodging him when he got too close to chancing a move - he was skilful at obscenely well-timed shifts of direction and exits from rooms and changes of subject that cut through the frequent ebbs of rising tension. Peter might have given up after a week of frustrating flirtation, but it was then it occurred to him that Carl knew what he wanted, knew what Peter was doing, and Carl, the bastard, was utterly enjoying watching foolishly lovelorn Peter twist in the wind. 

He worked it out that weekend - Peter had been somewhat desperately rubbing his nose against Carl’s forehead as they lay down to nap off a hangover, side by side. Just drop your face an inch or two, Peter told himself, and kiss him. 

Something made Peter stop, and it wasn’t lack of gumption - it was Carl, emitting a weird energy beneath Peter’s touch. What was that, Peter thought, then he could sense it: bemusement. Flattery. It was hotly steaming from Carl’s overly relaxed body, a halo of it. 

Peter pulled his face away and looked at Carl - dead in the eyes, and there is was. Carl was smiling widely, a knowing twinkle crackling loudly in his baby blues, mouth curling up, near to laughter. Peter couldn’t help it, he just blew up in an instant. Weak arm flew back, fist curled, and he whacked Carl full force in the shoulder. 

That smug expression evaporated off Carl’s face, and a petrified one overtook Peter’s. Oh Christ, now he’d started a fight. “What the fuck was that for?” Carl asked, annoyed and rubbing his arm. He didn’t sound overly angry, Peter gauged, which only bothered him more. “Because you’re a fucking prick!” Peter yelped. At that, he very dramatically kicked his way out of bed, before full pelt jogging out of the room in what would be best described as a wobbly, girlish mince. “Where are you going?” Carl called after him. A pause, then a distant “fuck off!” across the apartment, followed by the front door slamming. 

Carl lay there and rubbed his shoulder some more. In truth, it was fair enough. He did know why Peter was angry. He had been toying with him all week. But it wasn’t just to get a rise out of him and it certainly wasn’t to humiliate him - in fact, he felt awful that he might have done. Carl was enjoying Peter’s newly forged romantic affection in the same dizzying way a person enjoys having a crush on someone who likes them back. It was very juvenile, really.

But on top of that, Carl was more than a little hesitant about what was happening between them, suddenly at full speed. When did they become... this? He might have avoided speaking about it but he couldn’t avoid feeling it - and it was big, and terrifying, as much as it was bliss to indulge in. All the complications weighed on him, the dozen things that could wrong, the things people might say - their friends already gossiped about the two of them as it was. The more he lay there tumbling through those thoughts the closer to a panic attack he got. 

Don’t think about it, Carl told himself. Just get Peter back here and apologise for being, as he rightly pointed out, a prick. 

As soon as Carl picked up his phone to call Peter, he felt - not excited, but the same kind of giddy, kiddish affection he had all week. His heart sped up, both in a good way and a bad one. Anxiety mixing with desire. Still, he called. He wasn’t even sure Peter had his phone. 

Peter did, clearly, as was evidenced by him picking up on the second ring. “Where are you?” Carl asked, trying to sound immensely casual. “Just went to the shop, pick up a vino. D’you want anything?” Peter replied in the exact same phoney tone. “Get us one as well?” Carl asked. “Already have,” Peter said. “See you in a second”. He hung up the phone. 

That was immensely weird, Carl realised. Walking home Peter realised it to. They were in the same place, feeling the same way, thinking the same thoughts, all the while acting like they didn't. It was a sort of madness. 

Peter raced back to the flat, he didn’t even pretend not to. He knew something lovely was about to happen and he knew Carl was waiting for the same. He emerged through the front door seconds later, bottle of wine under each arm and another in his hand for good measure. 

Carl had made his way to the couch, and smiled at the sight of Peter, genuinely smiled. He was very sweet, really, he thought, unbrushed hair pushed out sideways, too-small shirt - Carl’s of course - dirty jeans with an unzipped fly. 

Peter watched Carl regard him fondly as he approached the coffee table and placed the bottles down. He smiled shyly back, a small laugh along with it. 

“I’ll get glasses!” Carl said brightly after a moment, though he came back with cups. He was starting to wonder if they even owned any glasses. Peter popped open a wine, poured them one each, and they watched each other. Those same small laughs turning increasingly into brief giggles. 

It was going to happen now, Peter decided. He just had to work up the courage. It came very shortly after - when Carl emptied his cup and reached for the bottle, Peter had to stop him. He wanted him sober. He wanted them present. That was the whole point. 

Peter found his voice more easily than he’d expected.

“Don’t have another one yet,” he said. 

“Why not?” Carl asked softly. 

Peter looked at him, properly, at the gentleness being offered to him, the inevitability fixed in Carl’s gaze - and for the first time in this mangled relationship Peter felt safe saying something very unsafe.

“I’d quite like to kiss you,” Peter answered. 

A quick, short breath travelled inward though Carl’s nose, as if consuming the audacity of the statement. 

Right in Carl’s widened eyeballs, Peter was staring. Their eye contact remained unbroken, intense, but so deeply affectionate. A mutual sense of care, compassion, was the biggest sensation of all.

Carl rapidly searched for an answer between “I’d really like that” and “er okay”. Neither seemed right. He swallowed. 

Just nod, Carl told himself. So that’s what he did. He just nodded. 

Peter slid over to him - not too fast, not too slow. He moved himself the extra inches he needed to reach up and take Carl’s face in his hands. Carl’s heart began to race, but not for the usual reasons. He felt a bit stunned, not because he was about to be kissed, and not because he very much wanted to be kissed. But simply because what he saw so clearly in Peter’s eyes was stunning. The way Peter was looking at him, with such love, such adoration - the sheer volume of it, the complete openness of it. No one had ever looked at Carl like that before. Not once in his life had anyone looked at him like that. No one had loved him just like this. That’s what it was, that’s what had him from the start, from day one, hour one, minute one. The way Peter looked at him. And Carl hoped, just for a split second, that he was looking that way back at Peter, too. 

Peter’s lips met Carl’s then, magnetically fused in an instant, and Peter felt relief, such a great sense of relief from his longing. The mouth was on his, the hands had tenderly gripped his neck, the warm wet taste of wine as always powerless against that taste of Carl, just Carl, who he utterly adored. 

The tenderness of the kiss gave way to a rumbling passion - it deepened, travelled the distance from sweetness to rawness and they were just snogging, then, exactly like a pair of kids on the couch. Because that’s what they were, in truth. There was a charming innocence to everything they did that they wouldn’t recognise until much later. 

Carl found himself tilting back, sinking into the cushions, drawing Peter down with him. The kissing didn’t stop - they couldn’t, it was such a release and a hunger at once. They kissed and kissed and kissed until they felt the inevitable tug of wanting more, those filthy flashes burning up and vividly splintering off, a promise of what could come next. 

Peter was on top of Carl now, all the way on top of him, pressed together in a way that instinctively resulted in a slow and mutual roll of the hips, just tentatively, just the very tendrils at the start of something else. 

Neither of them, however, did a single thing to further the exploration. Their hands didn’t wander off necks or faces, the grind of their bodies remained vague and calm. Nothing more would happen, not on that couch. Carl for his part was simply too frightened - this was already a lot, already enough. Peter had a different motivation - he only wanted to kiss. Well, he wanted everything in the world, actually, but right now, he just wanted to kiss. He wanted to prove that there was something more meaningful than lust between them. He needed to know that Carl had all along wanted more than a convenient dispenser of drunken, late night orgasms. He wanted to know that Carl wanted to kiss him. Just kiss him. 

Peter already knew it. Even Carl already knew it, past the layers of shame and terror, he knew. But now they had proof, and Peter finally had Carl’s lovely mouth, his lovely tongue, his lovely lips, pressed against his for so many long minutes that they’d both grown flushed and shaken. 

It was Peter who pulled away, eventually, extracting himself with immense carefulness from Carl’s embrace, and smiling so intently that Carl could only smile back into that reddened, dazed face unsteadily wavering before him. It cut right through the awkwardness, that smile. It was meant to. 

They scrambled up and sat themselves close together, not too close nor too far - close enough that Peter could tip a few inches and nudge Carl with his shoulder, just to make him smile again. Peter looked very frazzled, sort of like he’d had an electric shock, Carl mused. But when he went to pour them both another wine, Carl noticed his own hands were shaky, he was shaky all over in fact, and he began to doubt that he looked any less tumble dried than Peter currently did. 

Carl laughed at that private thought. Peter raised his eyebrows shyly. “What?” he baby-whined, along with another shoulder nudge. Carl shook his head. “Just everything,” he said with a short, nasal giggle. Peter nodded, charmed, satisfied, overjoyed. He lit a cigarette, sipped his wine, and eased back into the couch. This was a good day. 

They drank, they flirted, and they waited. Neither of them said anything to suggest it, neither of them thought it out loud even in their own heads. But they were both waiting till the liquor did it’s work, and they could giddily, easily, allow those hands to wander as they had so badly wanted. 

It took a second trip to the off license, and for the night to creep towards the dawn, but eventually the entire scene was played out from the start with a slightly different ending.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter woke the next day with a rotten hangover from gallons of that nasty, cheap red wine. He noticed he was alone, then he remembered - tugging Carl by the arm off the couch and trying to lure him to bed, before Carl gave him a kiss on the forehead and said goodnight, escaping to his own little room. 

He gathered up the rest of the evening’s events, the wedges left in his memory that weren’t washed away by wine. 

The kissing - oh yes, that had started again. It oddly took a few more hours and a lot more drinks but eventually they shuffled together and latched on with a hapless urgency that was as sloppy as it was passionate. Down they went, into the couch cushions, much less chaste for the second round. They lay facing one another, pressed together, and hands started wandering immediately, namely Peter’s hands. He pawed drunkenly at Carl’s jeans and, finding a thrill-inducing bulge at the ready, he immediately took to tearing into them, zip yanked down with excessive force and his hand fighting its way through fabric with greedy abandon. 

Carl laughed through the kisses - giggling that sweet, shy way - at Peter’s desperation. That made Peter giggle too, but recalling it now Peter felt a little embarrassed by his behaviour. It was fine at the time, in the moment it all felt so enormously passionate, but a certain morning-after cringe rose in his belly. Oh never mind, he told himself. Carl may not even remember it, and even if he does he’s certainly not going to raise it, he thought. 

What next - the hand was wedged in there, the deliciousness of it all, even Peter’s fingers around Carl’s cock felt like they were pulsing along with his rapidly pumping heartbeat. The way Carl pulled away from his lips then, looked Peter in the eyes so woozy and weak with lust, and dove back into his mouth with a groan when that hand started working in earnest - that memory made Peter shudder even now, so much so that he wondered if he had time to replay it a few times and tend to himself quickly before Carl woke up. 

He supposed he could? Peter sat partway up in bed and listened: there it was, snoring. Proper snoring, not close-to-waking dozing snoring. Carl was still very audibly fast asleep in the next room, though both their doors were regrettably open. Still, Peter figured, he could probably manage. 

He reached under the covers very, very gingerly, as if even the movement of sheets would somehow give him away. He slid his hand into his underwear, erection already impossibly hard, a tingle of relief coming over him at the touch of his own hand. 

Peter replayed that brilliant moment a few times as planned - Carl’s woozy eyes, that magnetic kiss, that sound he made - but then he moved on to the best part. The memories were muddled, but at some stage Peter became aware of Carl’s hand sliding off his waist, down onto his thigh, and making it’s way onto the very obvious erection pushing up against the fabric of Peter’s jeans. Carl’s fingers made contact, then his palm, pressing down, softly enveloping him, then harder, more aggressively. Peter pushed back against that lovely hand, grinding against the palm, and emitted a needy sound, a whine of arousal, his mouth travelling down to Carl’s neck in a trail of open-mouthed, breathy kisses, tasting that beautiful skin, wanting all of it. 

Carl’s hand was gone again seconds later, and Peter momentarily wanted to scream. Of course he was enjoying it all, but he’d also been exhausting his wrist from various angles for a good ten minutes, with Carl in his drunkenness in no hurry to get to a conclusion. Carl could at least give him a proper fondle back. 

No sooner had that thought crossed Peter’s mind than Carl’s hand began the same journey again - waist, thigh, crotch. Carl wanted to return the favour - he really did, the concept entirely excited his wine-soaked, uninhibited brain, but he couldn’t bring himself to undo Peter’s pants. It seemed silly, but even drunk as he was, he couldn’t do it. Peter didn’t know that at first, but as Carl kneaded and pressed away at his crotch with increasingly wanton vigour, it dawned on Peter precisely that Carl was just too shy to get his pants off. Well, that could be arranged. 

Peter let go of Carl for a moment - he shook his hand out in the air briefly as if he was stretching after a run, his wrist really did hurt at this point - and readily unzipped his fly, wriggled a tiny way out of his jeans and pants, grabbed Carl’s hand, and attached it directly to his cock. Just like that. There, he thought, now get on with it. 

He was back all over Carl in an instant - plastered onto his lips, wet tongue lolling ceaselessly in his mouth, hand gripping where it left off, except now there was the delicious friction of their forearms crossing in mutual movement, seesawing, heating up, then increasingly sliding as sweat beaded on their skin. 

Remembering that especially gave Peter a buzz of electricity down his back, through his thighs. Everything with Carl felt so heightened - even just on recall, it was all a delirious fantasy, near-unbelievable in its intensity. He slid down further in the bed, bent his knees up, and engaged in a far more energetic act of self pleasure than he had in some time. His lips parted, involuntary gasps slipping between them. He had to bite down on his bottom lip to silence himself, though the huffs just made their way out of his nose instead. 

The last of last night - that dizzying memory of peering down at Carl’s arm, muscles straining as it moved back and forth, meeting skin, igniting, and how Peter’s mind wandered, how he was submerged in the sensation of Carl’s fingers just a touch loose around his cock, perfect pressure, ceaseless strokes, that he forgot to keep up his own on Carl. He lay there, tucked into Carl’s neck, his own hand unmoving now, just gripping Carl lazily, as Carl’s hand sped up that little bit faster and that was it, Peter was done for. 

Carl let Peter lie there like that, let him have a few minutes of pleasure to himself, and that’s all it took - a rumble rolled up from Peter’s torso and then heat, immense heat, accompanied by a high, long whine, and he came, all over Carl’s hand, all over the cushion, all over himself. 

Peter’s body rapidly weakened, he nuzzled against Carl’s cheek - then he felt it, Carl unceremoniously wiping his hand off down the thigh of Peter’s jeans. “Rude!” he mumbled into Carl’s hair, kissing his head through it. “It’s everywhere!” Carl retorted in an almighty slur. Then he nudged Peter to resume, his limp hand still tucked inside Carl’s underwear. Peter pulled it out instead. “My arm hurts,” Peter whined. Carl audibly tisked - a pause - then he slurred some more: “Do the other thing”. 

Peter popped up immediately, like a curious little meerkat. He looked at Carl, at his flushed, damp face, which had been consumed by embarrassment at the audacity it took to make the request, and he smiled. The smile turned into a knowing grin. Carl winced. “Just do it or don’t!” Carl complained. “Alright hold your horses,” Peter mumbled as he made his way off the couch, slid to the floor, and kneeled alongside Carl’s outstretched body. 

Peter went to tug Carl’s jeans down some more but it was difficult at his sideways angle. “Can you sit up maybe?” Peter said. He stared right at Carl when he said it, and Carl looked completely, but very endearingly, embarrassed. But he did it, he sat up. Peter shuffled over to kneel in front of him, hooked his hand into the waist of his jeans and yanked. Carl had to lift his body up for Peter to get them down, and by that stage the process had become a tad awkward. 

That’s not the emotion Peter wanted to remember, not in the middle of his currently delightful wank. A quick fast forward and ahh - glancing down in the dim room at Carl’s beautiful body, stripped from the waist down, jeans at his ankles, looking at him like that properly for the first time. Picking his cock up tenderly, his mouth hovering close, breathing out a steam of hot air that made Carl groan, then sliding that beautiful thing through his lips, across his tongue, into his throat, a soft suck that elicited a small cry, and sliding it out again, and down again. Remembering how much more he’d enjoyed it than even the first time - how much he’d relished that intimate taste of him, the sensation of laying his face down along the soft hair there, each movement of his lips and tongue followed by a sing-song moan. 

After a period of lolling back against the cushions, Carl’s arm came up and squeezed Peter’s shoulder first, then he sat right up straight, took hold of Peter’s head with both hands, pushed him down, and held him there in his lap. Carl’s began hips riding upward into his open mouth and Peter remembered the hardness of it, the erotic charge of that rhythmic intrusion, the spit pooling on his tongue until it dripped, and Carl’s thighs, smacking softly into his face with every upward stab of his hips. And then - so little warning, just an immense, guttural groan, a sharp twitch, and a whirlpool onslaught of hot, salty come overflowing out of Peter’s mouth, onto Carl’s cock, as Peter followed it down, and sucked. Carl’s hand appearing, grabbing Peter by the shirt and pulling him to his mouth, kissing him, tongue first, kissing so hard, Peter’s hands pressed down onto Carl’s bare thighs. 

No, that was it - that was the best part, Peter thought - he sped up the motion of his hand under the covers until he was racing to the finish. Just needed to run that last part through his mind one more time and - 

“Morning!” Carl, rubbing his eyes, said cheerily from the doorway, and Peter screamed. Full tilt shrieked, the sheer echo of it around the room making Carl jump back a foot. Peter rapidly dislodged his hand from under the covers and onto his heart. “Jesus fuck you scared me!” Peter yelped, trying to get a grip on his thundering chest. “Besides it’s two in the afternoon!” Peter snapped. “What are you saying good morning for?” 

“What’s wrong with you?” Carl snapped back, and it occurred to Peter that Carl likely didn’t see anything. Or he was pretending not to, either way he could probably drop the crankiness. 

Carl genuinely had no clue why Peter was acting so stroppy, he hadn’t caught sight of the under the covers action as he sleepily wandered out, he just noticed that Peter was awake and fussing about. In fact he now wondered if Peter wasn’t angry about the night before. Carl was the one who was furious about it last time, maybe Peter was just paying him back. He didn’t bloody know. The whole thing was uncharted and confusing. 

“Just scared me that’s all,” Peter said, more calmly. Carl looked at him sympathetically, and he realised if something was wrong he wanted to fix it. He could only remember slithers of the night before - though he certainly got the gist, and certainly recalled a salacious summary of events. Maybe he was a prick to Peter last night, fuck knows. But he didn’t want to fight about it. Fighting made it worse. Discussing it made it worse. He just wanted normalcy to resume as fast as possible. What happened between them couldn’t change things, he was adamant about that. Though it already had, of course. 

Carl offered the only quick fix he had in his armoury. “D’you want a cuddle?” he asked, and approached the bed, expecting an invitation. Peter, who was still keeping his knees bent to conceal the boner that had in no way been diminished by his fright - if anything Carl standing there shirtless in his boxers asking for a cuddle was making things markedly worse. “No Carl,” he said in a big, childish whine. Carl looked visibly befuddled. And he felt a little desperate. He couldn’t have Peter stropping over - well, sex, Jesus Christ. The concept made him feel panicky. 

“Are you fuming about something?” Carl asked. “No!” Peter whined again. “Can you just - go away. And close my fucking door”. Carl stared at Peter dumbly. He looked a little hurt, Peter registered. And he felt terrible, because this was stupid. Mere hours ago Carl had his hand down his pants and now he was embarrassed to be caught having a wank. No it wasn’t that - it was specifically because it was a wank over Carl. It’s not like he could read Peter’s mind but at the same time, the morning after all the stuff they did, Carl would know, he’d just know, what filthy memories Peter would have running through his mind. And Peter felt crushingly humiliated by being caught out like that. It made him feel vulnerable and exposed, and he hated that, just hated it. 

Carl turned around, and left. He didn’t slam Peter’s door, but he had a mind to. He just closed it, and sat on his bed, feeling anxiety racing icily through his veins. Absolutely not could they be having mysterious fights about hidden emotions. That was like... being in a relationship. That was like they were - 

A sharp, repetitive sound interrupted Carl’s thoughts. The bed, creaking, quietly, but creaking. Peter’s bed, where he’d resumed his ferocious session of self pleasure as the only possible means to immediately end his physical and emotional torture. Carl’s mouth came open, and he stifled a laugh. 

It all clicked. “I see,” he said to himself. Carl lit a cigarette and lay back on the mattress, ashing in a teacup, listening to Peter’s wrestling with himself go on another few minutes. Everything was okay then. Peter would undoubtedly act like nothing happened in an hour. Probably less. Though very distantly, Carl found himself feeling a tad disappointed Peter didn’t take the cuddle, invite him in bed, make his predicament both their problem. Would Carl even take that offer? Probably not. So why’d he want the offer made, he asked himself. 

The bed stopped creaking abruptly, the muffled sound of a gasp dying behind the wall. There was perhaps a ten minute gap between that silence, during which Carl stayed holed up in his room smoking another cigarette, and Peter calling out, “Carl. Caaarl!” Carl emerged from behind the door. “What?” he said carefully. Peter smiled, one of his pouty, manipulative smiles. “Can you make tea?” he cooed. Carl rolled his eyes dramatically, but he walked the rest of his cigarette over to Peter, sticking it in his mouth for him. “Yeah alright” he said with a sigh, and turned to walk out and make it. 

“Carl?” Peter said again. Carl turned back round. “Hmm?” he replied. “I’m just mighty hungover and my head’s cracking in half and I’m cranky, it’s that terrible wine. I don’t know why I buy it. There’s better for a fiver. And you really did just frighten me,” he rambled. Carl smiled at that avalanche of bullshit and gave nothing away. “It’s alright,” he said. “Tea!” he added with a nod. “Yes, tea,” Peter replied perkily. 

Tea and blessed silence, Carl thought. But first he walked into the lounge, surveyed the obscene stains on the couch, and flipped the cushions over.


	6. Chapter 6

The kiss on the couch - and the night that followed - wasn’t exactly the monumental turning point Peter had hoped it would be.

Neither of them had the rustled up the necessary courage to make another move while sober, and despite how awfully close they'd become, those three nights of passion felt like flukes. Two weeks went by without any further progress on the matter, and a growing frustration took hold that resulted in twice as many petty domestics around the apartment. 

Neither of them were sure how to make anything happen again, other than getting roaringly drunk. Peter had resisted it - he saw it as a cheat. Plus they’d been skint - neither of them presently had gainful employment - and most of their drinking in the past fortnight amounted to bumming sips from friends at bars and clubs. And bars and clubs led to an unwelcome distraction - girls. Carl seemed to double down on his skirt chasing efforts during that fortnight, while Peter doubled down on his sooking in nightclub corners waiting for Carl to notice he was angry with him. Carl certainly noticed. But it irritated him, in truth, the possessiveness. On one hand he felt as flattered as ever, on the other he worried that Peter’s increasing sense of entitlement where he was concerned was very much destined to blow up in their faces. 

Dole day came round and despite all the reservations of the past couple weeks, the pair of them immediately lost interest in going out.  
“We should get supplies, hole up in the gaff and write as many songs as we possibly can in a week,” Peter, government allowance in his fist, insisted with breathless excitement.  
“That’s actually a brilliant idea,” Carl replied, with equal breathlessness.  
The implications were clear, not that anyone was admitting it. 

And so began a routine of writing all day while getting ridiculously battered together and each waiting for the other to make the first move. 

The first two nights, neither of them did a thing. Peter didn’t want to make his intentions too obvious, and Carl refused to be the one to start it up again. Instead they retreated to their separate beds after a fast, frustrated hug goodnight, only to lay in the dark with the room spinning and tension at an all time high. 

The third night, Carl drank so much, so quickly that, despite his insistence that he never got sick, he spent the rest of the evening on his knees in front of the toilet bowl, Peter holding back his hair as he threw up, and the entire following day tending to his friend as he nursed a violent hangover. 

On the fourth, they fought viciously over a fairly unimportant chord progression, precisely like lovers upset about something entirely different to the thing they were arguing about. 

Though their desire was unspoken, it was now mutually understood, and that somehow made it far harder to reach out and ask for the forbidden. 

The upshot, of course, was that all this time alone together meant they'd written a lot of increasingly brilliant songs, many of them transparently tinged with the longing they felt for each other. 

By the fifth night, feeble attempts at seduction wilting to the point of collapse, Carl grew impatient and more than a tad resentful of the achingly frustrating waiting game they found themselves playing - and more so, he found himself perturbed that it had somehow become a priority at all. So - after a massive blowup - he went out, leaving Peter home alone and miserable. 

Peter had stayed up, sitting in the dim lamplight, still tinkering with lyrics and melodies, when close to the dawn he heard the front door slam and Carl thereafter stumbling through the house. Alone, thankfully. The stumbling continued until he’d reached the door of Peter’s bedroom, and stood in it, swaying, offering him a military salute. Peter gave him one back with a wink. A pause. They stared. Then Carl came wobbling in, sat on the edge on Peter’s bed - plonking his shapely behind on top of Peter’s outspread journals - and took off his boots, sloppily, one by one. Peter felt a flutter of anticipation. Was this... what was happening? He wondered. But he got the sense he knew. 

Peter slowly began moving his journals off the bed, and lay his guitar on the floor. He yanked free the ones jammed under Carl as he wrestled with his second boot. The bed was clear should anything... happen, Peter thought. He watched Carl intently, stared at the back of his head, at his immensely dirty hair, and waited. Carl was up then, unzipping his jeans and stumbling as he tried to step out of them. Now Peter’s heart was properly racing. Carl turned around, glanced at Peter with a lopsided, very goofily sloshed smile, and stripped off his shirt. “Turn that off” Carl slurred, motioning towards the lamp by Peter’s bed. Peter did it way too eagerly, he was sure, but he didn’t care. “Move over” Carl slurred again, and Peter did as Carl hopped in under the covers. 

There was a moment or two of awkward silence, Peter wide-eye staring out into the dark, before Carl essentially pounced - he climbed right on top of Peter, smothered him with sloppy, liquor-soaked kisses and immediately began grinding against him fairly mercilessly. 

Carl stopped for a second to get Peter’s shirt off - Peter reaching his arms in air like a child, which made them both briefly share a laugh. As soon as the shirt was discarded, Carl’s mouth came down on Peter’s neck and Peter realised, with an erotic shock to boot, that Carl hadn’t kissed him anywhere but on the mouth until just now. The tingly session of those lips moving across sensitive skin had Peter slack jawed and gasping - even more so when the kiss moved down to his collarbones, travelling across his chest, pressing softly, a tickle from the warm breath exiting Carl’s nose as he went. He kept moving, mapping Peter’s skin with traces of saliva and hot breath, until Peter felt the stunningly sensual lap of Carl’s tongue against his nipple, a small suck following it, before he travelled over to the other. Peter made some garbled sounds then, which he’d be embarrassed about later but lord, it was just so exciting, so erotic, and Peter genuinely couldn’t control his vocalisations. 

Moreover Peter wanted to do the same, he wanted to kiss every possible section of the body laying on top of his. To Carl’s surprise, Peter flipped them both over till they’d traded places, and now Peter’s mouth was running a path down Carl’s neck, over his collarbones, but much faster and more impatiently than Carl had done, before he clamped his mouth down on one nipple, flicking it with his tongue - a nice, long sigh from Carl as he did - and raced over to the other, doing the same. He kept kissing downward, pressing his mouth all over Carl’s ribcage, sinking his lips down into the tiny mound of his belly, and thought he might go further still. 

But Carl collected Peter back up into a kiss, rolled into his side, taking Peter with him, and grappled for Peter’s hand, tugging it towards the aggressively firm erection on the verge of breaching the elastic of Carl’s underwear. 

Peter reached for him in the dark, fingers around his cock again, that intoxicating pulse he could feel traveling into his hands, the beat of Carl’s blood in every inch of his body. Instant relief when Carl did the same, rummaging into Peter’s pyjama pants and exposing him to the night air before Carl’s warm hand enveloped him, and began to move. 

No one’s arm was getting sore this time - they worked at a mutually frantic pace, kissing all the while, falling into a perfect rhythm. Orgasms arriving seconds apart - Carl having come with an eye-watering gasp just before Peter’s girlish moan let loose into the quiet of the room. 

Peter flung himself instantly into Carl’s arms for a cuddle. He fully expected Carl to stay in bed with him. Maybe they’d spoon. Maybe they’d wake up in a few hours and do it all again. Maybe they’d start over as soon as they’d had a breather. Maybe they’d wake up tomorrow wrapped in one another’s arms and do it all then. 

But Carl only stayed in the embrace for a few minutes before he kissed Peter on the forehead and told him he was off to bed.  
“You are in bed,” Peter retorted, feeling more hurt than angry.  
“My bed,” Carl said firmly.  
“What difference does it make?” Peter argued.  
“I want to be in my own bed!” Carl whined, raising his voice just enough that Peter knew if he pushed it, there would be a fight. He let it go, watched Carl tug his clothes on in the dark and stumble back to his own room. It was a crushing disappointment, Peter couldn’t lie to himself. This was exactly what he was worried about - just being something convenient Carl could do to get off - and then piss off. And now that he thought about it, Carl had escaped sharing a bed last time they were together like this too. Peter urgently tried to shut that spiralling dark thought down. Maybe Carl just felt shy about it and needed time to work up to it. Maybe it wasn’t a doom infused prophecy of struggles to come. Maybe, Peter thought. 

Carl said no more than a pointed “good afternoon” when he traipsed through Peter’s room the following day. Not until after he'd had a shower and made them both tea. Then it was back to acting like nothing had happened. 

The scene repeated itself the next night, and again two nights after that, and twice more by the end of the month. Carl stumbling in for shenanigans - more or less the same ones each time - then trodding off to his own bed while Peter was left feeling aggrieved. 

In the daylight, they'd go back to being their usually affectionate and often-bickering selves, like they were having two separate but eerily entwined relationships by day and night. 

Carl’s nocturnal visits were frequent but unpredictable, so Peter began waiting up till dawn on the off chance that tonight would be the night Carl came to him. He'd often sit up in bed reading or writing, then quickly flip off the light and feign sleep when he heard Carl's heavy footfall trudge up the stairs to the apartment, waiting in the dark for the familiar sounds of Carl undressing, the weight of him crawling across Peter’s mattress, lips already parted, ready to consume him eagerly. 

Only when Peter, sat alone in bed, would see the first rays of sun begin streaming into the room through the curtains, would he give up hope that Carl was showing up. It was a paranoid ritual that was losing Peter quite a lot of sleep and causing him a fair bit of anxiety. 

Worst of all were the nights when Carl didn't come home, frequently for days at a time, or came home with a girl. Enduring the girls was almost harder than not having Carl come home at all - not because Peter was jealous, exactly, not of these brief seductions with girls they’d never see again. Or that’s what he adamantly told himself anyway. 

Peter was inevitably left tossing and turning, aching as he listened to Carl emit the grunts and moans that should have been for him. He'd consider jerking off while he eavesdropped as Carl pathetically ravished some hapless broad or another - creaks and groans usually audible only between whispered apologies from Carl and giggles from his conquests. But somehow, after having spent those longing nights in Carl's arms, something he might have once found a cheap thrill now seemed depressing and a mite heartbreaking. 

At least, though, those nights Carl was close. Peter took comfort in that, comfort in knowing he'd see him the day after, see him making tea in his boxers, some girl attached to his side. They couldn't really talk, or spend time alone on days like that. But it helped, knowing he'd not be not fretting about him, missing him, for days. 

Some nights Peter would get in a huff and go out to find girls of his own, or take up a casual lover for a week or two, but in recent weeks Carl was rarely at home to witness it. 

Often, instead of entertaining his poor paramours after they'd made love, Peter would find himself leaving them in his bed, retreating to the couch and sitting by candlelight penning tomes to Carl in his journals, longing, abstract letters writ through with pained innuendo only Carl would understand. 

Only on one occasion did Peter successfully spend the night torturing Carl with his own loud, obnoxious lovemaking - hours-long and by luck with a very vocal young girl he'd been wooing on and off. He was aware of course, that Carl could hear it all, and Peter felt more like he was performing for Carl than for the girl he was with. 

It worked - as throes of second-hand passion rattled the room, Carl cussed at Peter and stomped furiously to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, banging as many pots and pans as he could in the process.

As she became something of a fixture at the apartment over the next fortnight, Carl said the girl had to go, said she was a bad influence, and Peter compliantly finished with her. It felt like a victory of sorts, but not a particularly happy one. 

After two long and agonising months of this constant uncertainty, Carl was still routinely crashing through Peter’s door near the dawn and climbing into his arms with no real change in the proceedings. 

Carl felt a pull in those cloaked, late-night embraces that deep down he knew came from a place of love. But he began to force himself to keep that love compartmentalised - at arm's reach from the shameful joys of Peter's mouth, his body. 

He pushed aside the heartsick waves of adoration he felt as he lay in Peter's bed, his cheeks flushed with release, and saved them for their platonic embraces, for their cuddles and naps and guiltless hugs, feeling safer exploring love there. 

If Peter ever reached for him across the bed immediately after they'd touched and kissed and been enveloped in the pleasure of each other's bodies, he'd wriggle away, bid Peter goodnight with that same old chaste forehead kiss, and retreat to his cupboard. Carl needed to know he had control over this situation, that he could create a space between them. Keep them both safe from... whatever this was. 

However Peter quickly and inevitably learned a workaround - if he didn’t touch Carl afterwards at all, Carl would often stay and fall asleep next to him, and, eventually, after some mysterious time out had passed, Carl would give in and curl into Peter’s arms or spoon against his endlessly long frame, arm resting across Peter’s chest as he slept. 

Each time daylight would arrive, and each time, Carl would have silently crawled to the other side of the bed, out of Peter's arms, and they'd say nothing about their exploits, but their eyes would meet and dance with lusty secrets and filthy memories. There was a thrill to sharing that secrecy, wordless as it was. 

But there came a morning Peter decided he urgently needed to know for sure if Carl could ever venture to risk this kind of intimacy sober, or at least, not fall-down drunk. Peter frequently wasn’t sober during their encounters either, often nervously sinking a bottle or two of cheap wine when he suspected Carl would be coming home that night. But increasingly he'd lowered his consumption so he could really feel it, really feel what it was like being with him, but it was a lonely experience, knowing Carl wasn't really there with him, and often so far away. 

He woke that day, the noon sun in his eyes and Carl still next to him, the absolute stench of stale of booze rising from his open, sleeping mouth. Peter inched up onto his elbow and watched him a moment, his hair splayed across the pillow in an adorably chaotic formation, his lashes soft and fine, and his lips swollen from a night of aggressive, ceaseless kissing. Peter wanted to touch him so badly, in a way he hadn't dared. 

He knew very well he could be starting an absolute brawl, that at best he could get a nudge in the ribs and stony silence from Carl afterward, but Peter wanted to know if Carl would allow him just that little bit closer. So he shuffled over and curled into him, around him, and kissed his neck. Carl began to rouse, and Peter braced himself, but Carl wasn't pushing him away. 

Peter seized a wave of courage and lifted his hand with the intention of sliding it into Carl's underwear, but as quickly as his bravery peaked, it fell. He hesitated, and put it back down along his side. He was scared. Carl could be awfully mean when a dark mood struck him, and he didn't want an act that was meant to bring them closer together to turn into some sort of horrendous fight that'd take weeks to mend. 

But just as Peter swiftly lost his nerve, Carl reached for Peter's arm and dragged it around his waist and with a murmur of pleasure, edged back into him. He'd never done that before, not in the morning after. Peter wasn't sure if Carl was still drunk or if they'd managed to get on the same wavelength. Either way, he took it as a sign to continue. 

The hand he'd laid on Carl's bare waist began to drift down onto his stomach. He rested it there a moment, palm splayed, to see how Carl would respond. He didn't, so Peter slid it further now, his fingers skidding underneath the band of Carl's underwear. Carl did respond then - by tensing his body. Peter felt the distinct pull of Carl's muscles tightening, his back taut against Peter's chest, but still he didn't stop him. 

Peter ploughed on. He decided to do it gently but fast - so in one quick motion he pulled up the edge of Carl's underwear, slid his hand inside, and grabbed hold of his cock, which he was pleased to find was already up to the task. Carl exhaled, loudly, but showed no other sign of how he felt about what was transpiring. 

He'd probably woken hard, Peter surmised, but still, touching Carl while himself so sober thrilled Peter, and he felt his own erection swell wildly and quickly. He didn't want Carl to feel it though, in case it alarmed him, so very carefully, he shifted his hips away from him, and went to work.

He didn't bother starting slow. Peter threw his wrist into a hard, fast rhythm, his grip tight and his motions short, jerking Carl's cock against the fabric of the underwear he was still wearing, the way he'd do it himself when he was hurrying to get to a conclusion. Carl began making lovely, small sounds of pleasure, low, light moans in his throat, mindlessly licking his lips, dropping his head back towards Peter. 

Carl's body eased, he was letting it happen, and it was happening fast - the whole thing lasted mere minutes before Carl arched his back with a much louder moan now, clearly about to come. Peter basked in the acuteness of doing this while so lucid, so awake, and in the daylight - the very real, warm and fleshy sensation of Carl's cock in his hand, the thrilling electricity of each of Carl's moans reverberating through Peter's body, the intense arousal it was causing him. 

With a deep gasp, Carl came, his body shaking a little as he did. Peter withdrew his hand immediately - he knew this was no time to linger. Carl immediately wiped away the mess with the sheet and shifted slightly as if he was going to get out of bed but Peter looped his arm back around him and pulled him closer, leaned his head onto his shoulder and, running completely on an instinct he had no intention until that moment of acting upon, took his arm off Carl's waist, reached into his own underwear and began tossing himself off at incredible speed, so badly wanting Carl to stay close while he did. 

Carl worked out what Peter was doing right away, and considered taking off from the bed, but he felt it'd be a little cruel, leaving Peter there, cock in hand, clearly moments from coming. He was still in fact a tad drunk, but it was the most sober he'd done anything like this, and despite himself, he wasn't finding it all that horrible. But he could never rely on his emotions when it came to Peter very long - he knew it'd be entirely possible he'd be furious about this in an hour. 

Still, right now he was fine, just laying there with Peter behind him, breathing heavily into his shoulder as he worked his way to a very quick and very intense orgasm. It crossed Carl's mind that he felt the urge to turn to him and touch him, finish it for him, but he didn't move. He just waited, offering only one small sign of unity - he dropped his head back, opening his neck to Peter's mouth, and Peter latched onto it, his teeth scraping a touch between urgent kisses. 

Peter came just seconds later - incredibly loudly, his head shooting upwards and his gasp billowing into Carl's ear as his body shook with the force of it. Carl waited just a moment longer, till he heard the band of Peter's underwear snap as he withdrew his hand from it, and he was up and walking quickly out of the room to the kitchen. 

Peter climbed back up on his elbow, wiped his hand clean in the already fairly grotty sheets, and peered down the hall to catch glimpses of Carl fussing around in the kitchen making tea. Peter looked over his thin, lithe body, underwear clinging to his soft and girlish behind, the bare feet Carl hated, long and perfect, waves of shiny, dark hair somehow as pretty as they were greasy, his handsome hands moving fast between the sink and the kettle, those hands Peter so liked to watch move along the fret of his guitar, the same hands that made him quiver night after night. He was so awfully in love with him, Peter realised with a thud in his chest. And suddenly it hurt. 

He felt helpless, and lonely, and the one person in the world he wanted to talk to, to share his feelings with, had just escaped from him like he was a source of danger, like he couldn't bear to lay next to him in the daylight. 

It tired him, knocked the wind out of him. It was too much to contemplate, too much to bear. Peter retreated from the pain, slumped back down, into the sheets, and forced himself to doze off again. 

He was woken only minutes later by Carl nudging his arm with his elbow and precariously holding out a cup of tea. Peter rested one arm behind his head, and took the cup with the other, looking up at Carl with his sleepy eyes and wild hair. Carl looked back down at him, sipping from his own mug, and smiled at him, eyes shining sweetly. It was a cheeky, knowing smile, and Peter realised there would be no anger, no retribution, at least not today. 

"Change those sheets, they're approaching bloody hazardous," Carl said with a nod towards the mangled bedding they'd spent the night rolling about in. "I will," Peter nodded, and Carl sat beside him on the bed, looping his free arm over Peter's shoulder and casually sipping his tea, surprisingly relaxed, Peter thought. 

Peter was utterly overjoyed - by the calm, the ease. Even the comment about the sheets - he knew Carl was saying it because they concerned him, too. He'd be getting back into that bed, that Peter knew for sure, and the very idea that  
Carl wanted to crawl into clean sheets beside him made Peter's heart skip a beat. 

Eventually Carl got back up and went about his day, shuffling off regrettably to a job interview - but Peter fretted for hours with laundry, not only washing the sheets but just about everything in the house that had piled up in a mountain on top of the laundry basket. Carl had given him something that morning, something special, a momentary glimpse of how things could always be, and Peter's act of dutiful domesticity was his way of giving something of value back. 

Peter was in love, he was sure of that now. The realisation made him feel as giddy as it did frightened. But above all it made him feel determined. He was going to make sure that Carl loved him too. Because he must, he absolutely must.  



	7. Chapter 7

Their ritual of frequently falling into bed together had become strangely routine. 

Peter had stopped pretending that he wasn't waiting up for Carl. Instead, he'd just throw open the covers and his arms, and Carl would crawl onto his waiting body, into his waiting kiss. 

Often, he'd cautiously ask Carl if he was coming home later, and Carl would nod in a way that indicated what was in store. There were fights over it too - Peter stropping and throwing things, telling Carl he'd abandoned their friendship, abandoned their band, abandoned their dream, just because he'd told him he wasn't coming back that night. Of course Carl knew why Peter was really angry, but he'd never relent, never comfort him, in those moments. 

And then Carl would vanish for days, arrogantly refusing to acknowledge that he owed anything at all to his friend. Refusing to acknowledge what they'd become to each other. Refusing to talk about it at all. But he knew. 

There was the odd night, too, where Carl didn't go out at all, and would play that old obvious game of over-drinking as they wrote songs together and eventually, when he could barely stand, crash into Peter's bed like he wasn't entirely intending to do so the whole time. Peter would smile to himself just a touch and get in beside him, Carl's hot kiss already latching onto Peter’s mouth as he slid under the covers. 

Carl was in turns distancing himself from, and becoming more invested in, their nocturnal romance, depending on how he was feeling that day, that week. No doubt in part because their explorations, albeit slowly, were going further. It soon enough became evident to Peter that Carl was wrestling with himself not to break that last boundary and just outright shag him. 

He'd on numerous occasions impulsively pushed Peter onto his side, pressed his erection against his behind and ground against him for several moments, during which the anticipation left Peter barely able to breathe. Just as impulsively however, he'd yank him back over and do something else, something less risky, usually with a frustrated sigh. 

It had by then happened several times - but on this night, amid their mad snogging and groping, Carl dialled it up a notch. Mid-kiss, he abruptly flipped Peter onto his stomach, clambered lustily on top of him, and just casually began grinding away, against Peter’s underwear clad-behind, slobbering over Peter’s neck all the while. Peter froze and let it happen, remaining fairly motionless due to the sheer shock of Carl actually doing it at all. And even more so worried that if he moved, he'd spook him like one might a deer in the forest. 

As it went on for a few intense minutes, Peter found himself connecting to the implications of just what Carl was toying with. He concentrated on the thrust of Carl’s hips, the rocking motion of the bed as it loudly creaked, the hardness of Carl’s cock wedged safely against Peter’s underwear, tantalisingly close to transgression, and he groaned, little by little getting louder, signalling, he hoped, that he enjoyed the demonstration enough to consider the real thing. In fact the whole idea began turning Peter on so acutely that he felt unmistakably damp patches, those droplets, warning shots, appearing across the fabric of his underwear. If Carl didn’t get off him in a second Peter might have some explaining to do. He held out, and Carl dismounted shortly after, turning Peter over, throwing himself back into the touching and kissing and the things they already knew so well. 

But once it started, it didn't stop. Carl’s suggestive grinding wormed its way into their usual repertoire, to the point where Peter was starting find the constant build up and let down frustrating. 

Carl was getting braver all the time, especially the drunker he was, but never, ever breaking that last taboo and actually having sex. Although as he would grind up against Peter's back, briefly imagining being inside him, he would never allow himself to let go, no matter how wasted he was. No, that was too much, Carl decided, in the moments he allowed himself to think about it at all. 

Peter on the other hand felt it was happening so often that he wondered if Carl was waiting for his permission, or some gentle encouragement that didn't involve Peter freezing up in a mild panic and whimpering sexily in the hope it'd just happen somehow. So he decided next time Carl was anywhere near trying it again, he'd make it clear it was alright for him to go ahead. 

In truth Peter himself wasn't sure if it was a good idea. He knew it wouldn't be without consequences. He knew it could be frightening. He knew Carl wouldn't calmly pass it off as just another brick in the wall of their complex affection. It wouldn't just be part of this game they played with each other, with each other's bodies, that they could barely give voice to. It would mean something. It would mean a lot, and it was undoubtedly a danger to the future of their friendship. 

But Peter also knew he entirely wanted it to happen. Every time it seemed like they were close, he was as thrilled as he was terrified. It wasn’t just the idea of having sex with Carl that was unimaginably alluring, although it was - it was lust incarnate. It was mouthwatering. It was making love with Carl - that was the prize, that was what he dreamed about, endlessly and far too often. That was the concept that caused the delirium. 

He just wished he could talk to Carl about it, the way they talked about everything else they both feared and desired. It was strange to feel so alone thinking about something so monumental, so intimate, that they'd be doing together, especially when they talked about everything else.

A week went by without Carl trying again - or for that matter, trying anything at all. But over that same week they'd found themselves spending more time together than they had in the fortnight prior - writing, playing, vanishing into dark, empty streets as the city slept, scaling rickety stairs in abandoned buildings and strolling by the river, dreaming up schemes and making one another howl with laughter. 

Peter would trod off to bed frustrated that those days of unity didn't automatically end with nights of affection, but he also didn't want to rock the boat and push it - but for his mandatory shifts working at a nearby theatre, Carl had been by his side, day after day, and he cherished that time together as much as he did anything else they did. Perhaps more, even. 

It didn't however take long for the situation he'd so obsessed over to arise, abruptly and with little warning, like it had each time before. Carl had finally given in and gotten into bed with Peter that night after a long day of drinking and tomfoolery in various backstreets and alleyways, during which they'd disturbed every neighbour in a four suburb radius with their howling sing-a-longs, play fights and terrible attempts at foreign accents which no one but them found funny. 

As they'd walked through the door, Peter had reached out in the dark and taken Carl's hand, walking him to the bed as Carl dragged behind him, feigning resistance. In truth Carl had already decided halfway home that tonight he wanted him, and Peter had unknowingly simply guessed right. 

They'd silently undressed down to their underwear and hopped under the blankets, laying for a time beside one another and doing nothing at all, till they turned to each other and exchanged an awkward laugh. With that, Peter reached for Carl, and Carl crawled over to him, their mouths meeting halfway. 

Peter didn't expect things to get overly heated - they'd been oddly cautious and timid at first, probably because neither of them were all that drunk any longer. They had spent a good hour tangled together under the blankets, cuddling, gently kissing and nuzzling one another shyly, near to dozing, before any real physicality had started in earnest. 

Inevitably Peter chanced a move, impulsively leaning in and sliding a needy paw down Carl's belly and impatiently tugging the band of his underwear - something of a call to arms when it became obvious Carl was about to throw in the towel and fall asleep. Carl responded just as urgently. His need for slumber rapidly forgotten, he reached up and took Peter's face in his hands, and so the ceaseless kissing kicked in, then the touching, their hungry hands scraping at one another's bodies, underwear they'd not bothered to properly remove tangled around their legs, until they were one seething mass of groans and motion. 

Then, it happened - Peter's heart skipped a beat when he felt that familiar shove of Carl's hand against his shoulder. He flipped onto his side with what he hoped looked like obvious enthusiasm, and turned his back to him. No underwear to safely keep them separated this time, Peter quickly realised, and his heart began to pound. There it was - Carl's nervous breath on his neck, the tentative nudge of his cock moving ever so shallowly between the forbidden hollows of Peter's body. 

Peter let him grind away there for a few seconds like he always did, but before Carl could skulk away, he reached his arm behind him, pulled Carl towards him by the hip, and pushed back against him. Carl seemed startled, and stopped moving altogether for a brief interlude. Peter waited - breath caught in his throat - and tried to make himself speak. He wanted to say something, anything encouraging. 

He didn't have to. Carl took the hint, at least partway. He grabbed hold of his cock, slid it down just a touch further, and began fairly aggressive tossing himself against Peter's body, inches away from actually penetrating him. 

This went on for some time, with Carl becoming more vocal the longer he did it - his mouth pressed against the back of Peter's neck, his jagged breaths became tender gasps that vanished one after another into Peter's skin. While Peter was enjoying it - the erotic motion of Carl's fist kneading against the softest part of his body, the slight abrasiveness of Carl's cock hitting the warm crevice of his behind with insistent rhythm - he was also frustrated by the dwindling anticipation. As agonisingly long minutes ticked by with no change in the proceedings, his frustration ballooned until it amplified his bravery and he found himself snapping, "Just bloody well... stick it in". 

The statement echoed in the room loudly enough to make even Peter cringe. He'd said it far more crassly and with far more volume than he'd meant to. Carl, unsurprisingly, froze, and slowly turned from him like he was inching away from a predator. He rolled onto his back, pulled up his underwear, dropped his arm across his eyes, and raggedly exhaled. 

Peter glanced behind him, decided it was safe to turn around, and lay on his back next to him. He felt odd with his underwear tangled round his knees so he took Carl's lead and dragged them back up, too. It was already awful, all of it. 

They lay there for a long minute, side by side, saying nothing. It was Carl who finally spoke, clearing his throat first and in doing so, only succeeding in making things doubly awkward. "I don't think we should," he said matter-of-factly. But his voice was distantly tinged with longing. 

Peter struggled to assemble his response in his mind before he said it aloud. He didn't want to make the whole thing any more humiliating and painful. But he also wanted to be certain that Carl understood he wasn't committing an unwarranted transgression, that they both wanted this, and that it was alright to want it. He didn't find a way to say anything quite so eloquent as that, though. "Well, I wouldn't mind. If you wanted to," he managed to utter, his voice a little broken, his near-whisper almost too quiet. 

Carl looked at him then, which Peter found startling. Carl looked at him intensely through the dark like he was deciding if he was even capable of doing such a thing with this person next to him. Then he looked up at nothing and sighed. "I'm going to bed," he declared, and was up and off to his room before Peter could get a word out. 

Peter had to absolutely bite his tongue. He wanted to call after him - tell him that he was being a coward and a baby. That they didn't have to do it, but he didn't have to be a massive wuss about it either, and make everything a hundred times weirder than it needed to be. And he didn't have to take off from the bed like he was in goddamn danger. 

Peter was silently stewing in a rage when he heard the unmistakable stomp of Carl rounding back to the bed. He'd barely lifted his head when Carl was back under the covers and again hoisting Peter onto his side. 

Carl hadn't laid down in his room. He'd stood there slumped against the wall, stared pitifully down at the mattress on the floor and asked himself what he was running from. He wanted to do it. He'd known that for weeks. He was struggling to stop himself with each passing night they spent together. And now knowing for sure that Peter wanted it, too, arose in him a deep, shuddering excitement that felt close to joy. What was the difference anyway? How was it any worse than anything else they were doing? Of course he'd made quite the turnaround on the issue - but then he was thinking with several months worth of sexual frustration and the equivalent of a loaded gun in his hand. 

The moment Carl shuffled in next to him Peter grabbed him by the hip, pulled him forward and turned his head back, looking for his mouth. Carl's lips and tongue came down on his and he made the sweetest sound, Peter thought - something that sounded like desire and relief, a moment of happiness so easily vocalised. 

Peter reluctantly pulled his face away and laid his head down on the pillow, waiting for the intense inevitability of what was about to happen. Carl shifted just a touch closer, spit in his hand - a sound that sent an anticipatory shiver through Peter's back - and fussed with it a moment. Then he simply yanked down Peter's underwear and slid his cock down against him. 

He started up his same old grind, but after a few strokes Peter felt it - the slow but unmistakable pressure of Carl's cock making its way inside him. It was at once a bigger shock than he'd imagined. This truly was going to be a big deal, he realised, and his attempts to minimise it in the past few minutes had been in vain. It was no less a shock when Carl pushed a little further - just the tiniest amount of force, but a surge of adrenaline rocketed through Peter's chest and pumped round his body, through to even his toes, he felt, almost immediately. 

But as quickly as it began, it stopped, and with a frustrated exhale, Carl shifted his hips away. Peter turned back to him, confused, his heart still pounding, his body still rooted through with a shiver of energy that suddenly had nowhere to go. Carl slid his arm around Peter's waist and pressed cheek against his face with a sad murmur. 

"I can't, I'm sorry," he said softly. He sounded miserable, Peter heard it in his voice at once. It made Peter feel terrible - for pushing it at all, for wanting it in the first place. He looped his arm back around Carl's head and pulled him to his mouth for a long and comforting kiss, then ruffled his hair in an impotent attempt at soothing him. "Don't be sorry," he said so very softly. "It's okay". 

Carl made another unhappy little grunt, such a contrast to how he'd sounded minutes before. So Peter rolled round to face him and climbed into his arms. Carl didn't stop him - he held him, kissed his head through his nest of hair, and they lay there together for a while, the weight of everything they'd struggled with heavy and dark between them. 

Carl had tried in earnest. He felt so determined when he'd gotten into that bed. But as soon as he'd felt their bodies connect in that unfamiliar yet fundamentally thrilling way, the same persistent fear gripped him, the same questions. What would it mean? What would it make them? He tried to imagine the minutes, the hours, the days, after it happened. It scared him. And he couldn't stay in the moment. So he folded under it, froze beneath it, and retreated, like he so often did. 

But he didn't go far. He wanted to stay in their bed, he wanted to be comforted by the one person who understood what he was going through. So he did stay, and he held on to Peter, desperately and openly. In a way, Peter got the conversation he wanted to have. They said it by saying nothing at all, just by clinging to one another, by feeling safe, together. Everything was okay. 

Eventually, when their hearts stopped racing and the abject exposure of what had transpired mellowed back into a mutual, softly humming desire, Peter calmly slid his hand down Carl's stomach and into his underwear, slowly finishing off what they'd started hours before.

Carl's own hand soon after gingerly made its way over to Peter's underwear in turn, kissing all the while. Touching one another with unusual gentleness, until they quietly came moments apart, crawled back into their embrace, faces tucked into one another's hair, and fell asleep. 

In the morning, Peter woke with Carl still in his arms, just where he'd left him. He hadn't snuck off in the dark like he normally did. And although he wordlessly climbed out of them, and shortly thereafter out of bed, as soon as he woke, Peter knew they'd achieved something that night. A space of intimacy they hadn't before broached. Where it would lead, he had no idea. 


	8. Chapter 8

Not two days later a friend who’d they’d been badgering to get them a gig at her indie night finally came through. 

Someone else had dropped out - no matter, a gig was a gig, they were to be paid 50 pounds, which sounded like a fortune to the two of them, and they had a week to get their shit together for what was a very coveted Friday night slot. A week - and that included actually putting together a band. 

It was a thrilling, slapdash, mad scramble, and a fantastic holiday from being in their own heads, and each other’s. There was no time for romance, it was endless practice of the five or so songs they’d written that were actually ready to play, roping in an underage bass player and a drummer they all assumed was around 95. Peter promptly wasted his entire dole check on a studio to rehearse in that three out of the four band members didn’t know how to use. But it they had a band, and they were ready as they ever were, for anything, which is to say not very. 

The gig nonetheless went raucously well even if it was largely only attended by their existing group of friends. There was something special about Peter and Carl’s energy, together, on a stage, and even as rickety as the performance was, they managed to gain some fans from the off. 

Rushing home afterwards in the dark, guitars strapped over their coats, cigarettes piping their hot smoke into the cold night air, they both felt elated, excited and more than a little hopeful. This was surely the start of something special. They felt it. There was something in the air too, when they performed together, that ignited between them even more fiercely than it did in private. A visible energy. A genuine connection. It was intoxicating. 

Arriving home Peter slid off his guitar and, winded, plonked down on his bed. They'd intended to drop off their guitars and hit the town to blow their fifty-quid fee, but the tension they'd worked up on stage was hanging in the air like a question in need of a physical answer. 

It was Peter who made the move. He recalled the openness and kindness they'd shared only a little over week prior, during a moment of risk that could have easily divided them. 

It was with those thoughts in mind that Peter lay back, unwinding his body across the bed, and reached out for Carl's hand. Carl walked over and took it, and looked down at him, sprawled and sweaty, his endless brown eyes full of invitation. "Come to bed with me Biggles," Peter said, bravely, simply. Carl entwined his fingers with Peter's and met his eyes. 

But the usual flow of love didn’t come. And suddenly, Carl was angry at himself. No, disgusted with himself, for wanting Peter the way he did. He was too sober for this. It was too real. 

He swiftly swatted Peter's hand away, a crack ringing through the air. There was an awful moment of realisation before tears sprang up in Peter's eyes. "You hurt me," he cried, holding his offended hand to his chest. But it wasn't the physical pain that was causing his tears to flow so spontaneously - it was the curt, cruel rejection. 

Carl immediately felt completely and utterly horrible. He stepped forward, reached out his hand again to Peter, but Peter rolled away, burying his face in the sheets. "Fuck off, I hate you!" he cried out in childish agony, his tears already dampening the mattress. 

Carl stood there, unsure what to do. He wanted to say sorry. But why was he sorry? For slapping Peter's hand? It was ridiculous. They'd fought far harder - hurt each other physically far worse. No, he was lying to himself. Carl knew exactly why he was sorry. But he couldn't say the words. 

It was then Carl felt a beep go off in his pocket and fished out his phone. It had lit up with messages from waiting friends - that's right, the gig. It already felt so far away. "Fuck this. I'm going out," he said. Peter had barely managed to dislodge himself from the sheets before Carl was gone from the room, fleeing the apartment, the door slamming behind him. 

Peter didn’t go look for him, but he did wait up for him, hour by hour dwindling hope sinking till it left nothing but pain. Carl didn't come home at all that night, nor the next, and his phone remained defiantly switched off. He didn't even turn up for a change of clothes. God knows how he was getting to work in week-old jeans, if he was at all, Peter wondered. 

By the third night, Peter had started to genuinely worry that Carl was dead in a ditch somewhere. He broke and called around to mutual friends looking for him, eventually figuring out that Carl was holed up with a girl a few streets away from their flat. Just a few minutes walk, and he'd not even bothered to come home. 

Four long, awful days passed before Peter heard the familiar trudge of Carl's feet up the stairs. He was sitting by the light of a single lamp at the rickety little kitchen table, jotting down the chords to a song he'd written alone and rather solemnly, but he was chuffed with how it was turning out. 

The sound of Carl's boots slapping the staircase made him freeze, his blood running cold. But pushing against the anger and knotting fear of confrontation was another twisting emotion - relief. Carl had come back to him. 

With a jangle of the door knob, Carl's head poked through the door and he ambled in, shoulder first, clearly feeling as defensive as Peter must have looked, sitting guarded at the table, pen raised an inch above the page like a weapon poised to strike. 

Carl mumbled an incoherent greeting, and Peter nodded, his eyes wide, wild and intense even in the low yellow lamp light that barely illuminated the room.

They avoided each other as Carl stalked towards his cupboard, vanished in there for a time, and then, stripped to the waist, headed into the shower. He paused momentarily at the bathroom door, made a small turn towards Peter, but said nothing, and closed the door. 

Carl stayed in the shower for what felt like a deliberately long time. Peter returned to his task but he couldn't concentrate, tracing over the notes again and again with his pen, aimlessly scribbling on the page. 

PETE + CARL. PETER + CARLOS. BIGGLES AND BILO. DOHERTY + BARAT.

The bathroom door burst open in a cloud of steam and light like particularly dramatic moment in a play, smoke machines and all, and Carl emerged, one towel around his waist, mopping at the wet hair clinging around his strong features with the other. 

Peter cast his eyes darkly over Carl's still damp body, but quickly looked away. Carl, busy drying his hair, acted as if he didn't notice Peter's glare - but he very much had. He turned and flipped off the light switch behind him in minor retaliation. 

Still stropping, Peter dropped his gaze angrily down to his journal, but in horror, he realised what he'd been doodling, and slammed it shut. He quickly tried to cover up his embarrassment. "Been writing songs," Peter piped up. "On me own". It sounded like an accusation. It was. "Yeah?" Carl asked, ignoring Peter's barbed tone, his curiously genuinely piqued. "Show me". 

He walked over, towelling his hair as he went, but Peter hugged the journal to his chest and held it protectively. "Not now," he managed, sliding out his chair angrily and retreating to the bookcase, flinging open a drawer and slamming the journal inside. Carl rolled his eyes, and vanished again into his room.

Peter sulkily dragged his feet to his bed, and got in, fully clothed in trousers and a dress shirt. He kicked off his shoes, perched on the pillows with one arm folded behind his head, and waited. Waited for Carl to come running out and beg him forgiveness. 

Time kept crawling by - ten minutes, fifteen, then twenty… and soon he couldn't hear Carl moving about anymore. 

Flying into a fury, Peter stomped over to Carl's room and yanked the door open. There was Carl, curled into a foetal position on the mattress, dressed in a woolly jumper and jeans, fast asleep in the dark, his bare feet curled together. Peter felt his heart soften a moment, but it wasn't enough to stop the tide of his rising bile. None too gently, he kicked Carl in the knees, and ran. Carl was up in a second, giving chase. 

There was a moment of chaos, confusion, as Carl caught up to him, pinned Peter to his bed, their face inches apart, his arm bent across Peter's chest, keeping him captive as he squirmed. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you!" Carl yelled in his face. "You know what! You know!" Peter blubbered, already weeping. He couldn't control himself - the pain felt like a black hole opening under him, and all he could do was grasp for Carl, and pull him down into it with him. 

"Stop this!" Carl said, with less rage now, and he let Peter go with a painful shove that sent him bouncing against the mattress. But Peter was still erupting - sobbing, writhing like a child. Carl just sat down beside him and exhaled sadly. He didn’t know what else to do. 

"I laid down before you like a dog and this is how you repay me!" Peter cried, his voice woven through with a shriek bordering on hysteria. Carl winced. He was startled by the rawness of the words. He bitterly recalled the humiliating image of Peter having done just that, while he cruelly shunned his laid-bare desire. 

Instead he'd run away, run far into the ruckus of the city, away from Peter's hands, away from Peter's body, and drowned himself in countless shots of whiskey, drowned himself in the warm arms and legs of a young girl who stared at him dumbly with adoring, needy eyes. 

Carl wanted her now - wanted her breasts and hips and the warm dampness between her legs. He wanted to be as far away from fantasising about fucking his best friend as possible. 

"I'm not… like that," Carl said darkly, the words crashing out of nowhere and landing in the room like a clap of thunder. Peter felt agony incinerating inside him, spluttering like a wildfire. He stopped crying, smiled an obnoxious, empty smile, and arranged his words to inflict maximum cruelty. "Well neither am I, Carlos," he mocked, "but we spend an awful lot of time in each other's pants for a pair of straight fellas". 

Carl flinched, utterly furious - and before he could stop himself, he lurched forward across the bed, an open-handed slap at the ready. Peter jumped up, dodging it, and lifted his arm across his face defensively, still anticipating a blow. 

But none came, and when he opened his eyes, he saw that Carl had retreated, sat back down on the bed, his palms against his temples, his whole body weakened by pain. "We can't keep doing this," Carl said, his voice low and strained, on the verge of ugly tears. Carl's lip was quivering, his pretty face stricken, his whole body giving off an air of being in the wars. It'd been a long time since Peter had seen Carl so broken - not since that night on the roof, not long after they'd first met. The night he felt so worthless that he wanted to jump into oblivion. 

Peter's anger evaporated at the sight of Carl’s so very visceral distress. It was misery that Peter was causing him. That they were causing each other. They'd been each other's salvation. How had this happened? 

"It's not easy for me neither Carl,” Peter said seriously, giving in, sitting heavily on the bed beside him. And then Carl, who hated to cry in front of anyone, was sobbing - big shaking sobs, rising from his chest, tears streaming into the hands now pressed over his eyes. "I love you," he mumbled through choking breaths. "I love you so much. You’re my best friend. But I can’t be with you like this. It's doing my fucking head in".

His own tears spontaneously flowing just as hard, Peter reached out and pulled Carl onto his lap. Instinctively, he knew Carl wouldn't resist. Carl wrapped his arms around Peter's neck, his fists balled up, his arms straining against Peter's back, holding him too tightly. 

Carl's warm body and warm jumper created an irresistible softness for Peter to fold into. He tucked his face into Carl's shoulder, under his still-damp hair, clean and sweetly scented with shampoo, and kissed his neck - once, twice, three times, a series of diminutive, sorrowful pecks, a hint of desperation in his affection. Then he just held him, hard as he could. 

After a time, Carl lay his forehead against Peter’s and stopped sobbing, the echo of his last cry dissipating around them, and Peter tenderly took Carl's head in his hands. 

He looked sorrowfully into Carl's red and blue eyes, at his tear-stained cheeks, and wiped the wet away with his long thumbs. His little face fit so neatly into Peter's huge hands. His expression was one of pure turmoil as he leaned into Peter's waiting mouth and kissed him. 

They were sober, they were scared, and they were suffering. There was so much weight in that kiss - an axis spinning off kilter, a feeling of falling. 

In one swift motion, Carl had tumbled onto the bed, pushed Peter down under him and was impatiently unbuttoning Peter's shirt. 

Peter was startled, admittedly, and he couldn't hide it - his eyes were wide with surprise and cautious joy. This he didn't expect. But Carl was like a man possessed. He had only two persistent thoughts - he wanted Peter, and wanted this to be over. He wanted all of it to stop - the longing, the pain, the terror. It was going to end now.

Carl tore off his own jumper, bare chest beneath, and then reached for Peter's pants, yanking open the zip, urgently hoisting them off his skinny legs. Peter wanted to stop him, he wanted to comfort him, to talk about this, to mend a love that was rapidly unravelling. But in his heart, he knew there was nothing he could say to fix this, or to fix them. 

So he kissed him back, deeply, greedily, and in turn pulled off Carl's jeans, Carl angling his hips upwards to help him. Swiftly their young bodies, stripped but for their underwear, were strapped around each other, their kisses unbridled, Carl's hair falling across Peter's eyes and cheeks as they kissed and kissed. 

This didn't last very long. Without a beat of warning, Carl grabbed Peter by the waist and, despite his inferior size, easily flipped him over onto his stomach, yanking Peter's underwear down, then stripping off his own as Peter lay motionless, an undeniable shake of both fear and excitement coursing through his body as it dawned on him what Carl was going to do. After all the anticipation, after the weeks of wondering if this would ever happen, now that it was, Peter struggled to pick an emotion to cling to. 

He heard Carl spit into his hands, two, then three times, tried not to panic as he felt the weight of Carl's body rest heavily across his back, tried to resist the palpitating urge to fight as he felt the simultaneously erotic and terrifying motion of Carl's hips wriggling into position, his free hand locking against Peter's hip. Pushing Peter's legs apart with his own. 

Carl was moving awfully fast - but he had to. He knew if he didn't he'd lose his nerve. And he wanted to do this. He needed to do this. So he fought himself at every turn, broke through every resistance, a surging need to go forward pushing him harder than the urge to stop. If he did this, it would be over. That’s what he wanted so badly to believe.  
  
Peter had no real idea how this was going to feel, but he was fairly sure it was going to hurt, so he buried his face in the pillow should he need to stifle his cries. There was just a split second of hesitation, a thunderous lull, their excited breath filling it like echoes in a void, before everything slowed right down. 

Carl breathed, in and out, in and out, to get his shaky, rattling body under control. As violent as his heart felt, he wanted to be careful, he wanted to be gentle. He steeled himself, exhaled again, swallowed hard, and then he was doing it - he began angling his cock against Peter, pushing inside him at an absolute crawl. 

Peter gasped, just the tiniest gasp, at the shock of the acute and inescapable reality of what he was experiencing - of what they both were. It was happening, really happening, and he knew Carl wasn’t going to stop this time. 

Carl pushed a little further, deeper, inching inside with very short, very shallow thrusts, a strangled breath accompanying each one. Peter winced then, not because it hurt, exactly, but because he could properly feel it, the force of it, the vulnerability. He was offering something so personal, connecting to Carl in a way it that his imaginings, his estimations, his daydreams about this very moment, could only be dwarfed by. His fantasies were minuscule. This was real. 

Carl’s shallow thrusts deepened, he was moving inside him now, slowly, exhaling and inhaling loudly and anxiously above Peter’s head. A dull pain finally did crawl from far inside Peter’s body and across his torso, an odd, sharp, momentary sting, a sensation of resistance against intrusion, just a moment or two that made him whimper, before he instinctively let go, relaxed, and let it happen. 

Then it'd begun. A strange sigh that sounded like relief left Carl's lips when he made that final forward motion and his cock vanished entirely into warm the depth of Peter's body. 

Peter struggled to process it - the completely alien sensation of Carl inside him, the strangeness of feeling Carl's body begin rocking softly but ceaselessly against his own in the most intimate way imaginable. With nervous little murmurs and excited, jagged breaths, Peter worked through the physical logistics first, shifting slightly to allow Carl to move more fluidly, and as Peter eased into it, entirely adjusted, he connected to a second, bigger sensation - an undeniable, deeply animalistic desire. 

He began absorbing it - the feeling of having Carl so close, his warm belly hitting the small of his back, his elbows sinking into the bedding alongside Peter's ribs, the very realisation that Carl was fucking him, the delicious rhythm of Carl's skin connecting with his, sticking, the sharp "ahhs", now tinged with audible pleasure, rolling out of Carl's parted lips.

Both their fears were rapidly being drowned out by a mutual and excruciating arousal. An electricity tingled through Peter's thighs, his rattling heart rushed blood so fast around his body that his face flushed, and he felt the intense pressure of his own erection swelling to an unimaginable hardness underneath him with every beat of Carl's hips. 

A hot tickle of sparkling pleasure moved from somewhere deep inside Peter’s body, moving around from behind him and down into his torso, a specific, warm-flowing sensation that he’d never quite felt before, and it grew and grew. Peter felt submerged under the weight of Carl on top of him, pressing and releasing, that dam building, and he let out a moan of pure enjoyment - that first sure sign of pleasure warmed Carl through, calmed him, allowed him to connect properly to his own. 

Carl leaned down and kissed Peter's neck, found his way down and kissed his lips, too - Peter’s tongue darting hard into Carl’s open mouth with a groan. The heat rising between them was growing feverish - Carl seized the courage to fuck Peter faster, his hot breath now coming in rapid, loud pants against Peter's ear. 

Peter groaned, helplessly turned on, and began to return Carl's thrusts, bouncing back against him as Carl bit down gently at the soft flesh of Peter’s shoulder, a thunderous crack of sensory shivers travelling down Peter’s back as he did. Their motion became an unstoppable force - a sheen of sweat misting over them both, that chaotic smack of skin meeting, swift and wet, a chorus of wails and panting. 

Neither of them could think, not at all. There was a sense of disconnection, of leaving the bodies and minds they knew and trusted, the things they believed, leaving behind who they were minutes before and the distantly nagging sensation that they'd never go back again. 

The intensity of what Carl was doing to him, of what they were doing together, what it meant, washed over Peter in a wave of deep, rumbling distress and boundless, uncharted pleasure. Feelings greater than he knew how to control. He whimpered, he cried out, he made sounds that mimicked pain but weren’t - they were something more complicated than that. And then the strangled moans, sounds Carl had never heard come out of Peter, or anyone, so raw, so viciously arousing to hear. He realised at that moment he didn’t know what it sounded like, what it felt like, to fuck a boy until just now. And now he knew, now he knew and the very idea sent lava flowing through his torso and it wouldn’t be long now, not at all. 

Carl was getting close, a fire burning from his belly to his crotch, when with a low, guttural groan he buried his face in Peter's hair and muttered into his ear, "Is this what you wanted?" 

The question washed over Peter in a cold wave, so simple, so enormous, such a mean thing to ask, especially now, in the middle of all this. It injured him at once, shook him out of the moment, and in a whirlpool of so such uncontrollable emotion it was more than Peter could take. Tears sprung into his eyes and he stuttered in a half-sobbed reply: “I just want to be with you". 

Instantly, Carl stopped dead – a grunt of aching empathy escaping his lips with his last thrust. The entire machinery of his mindless fucking whirred off to an abrupt halt. He suddenly felt so cruel. It was a horrible thing to say, and he didn’t know why he’d said it. Some part of him, somewhere, was still angry about all of this. 

He breathed heavily for a moment, frozen in position, still buried inside Peter’s body, still so terrifyingly close to one another, a switch in his mind flipping from primal to so very overwhelmed. 

Carl mopped the sweat off his lip with the back of his arm, shifted himself off Peter’s outstretched form and lay beside him. “Turn around," he said gently. 

Peter gingerly rolled onto his back and Carl slumped on top of him, lay across his chest, and looked into his eyes.

Peter was awash in love and grief. Carl saw it immediately and it tugged at him, through the core of him. "Did I hurt you?" Carl asked quietly. "Only my heart," Peter answered, eyes moist and brimming. He reached up and stroked Carl’s hair. 

Carl's face crumpled. He felt as if his own heart was knotting up in his chest. He kissed Peter on the forehead, brushing his hair away from his face as he did. Peter's lip trembled, tears again brimming, threatening to spill, until they overflowed and streamed from the sides of his big brown eyes. He closed them, eyelashes glistening. Carl leaned down, kissed each eye softly, then lay his cheek against Peter's, still for a brief moment. 

Feeling their sweaty bodies pressed against each other, all Carl felt at that moment was the distinct urge just to hold him, just to hold him and tell him that he loved him. 

So he did. He collected Peter up in his arms and they lay there, coiled together, Peter making sad little sounds. "I do love you so much," Carl mumbled into Peter's hair, his voice strained with emotion. 

Peter kissed him, wrapped his arms around his neck, and with his voice quivering, replied, "You've always known I love you Biggles". Peter was fairly sure they were talking about two different kinds of love, but it didn't really matter anymore.

Peter found himself getting a grip on his emotions, soothing himself. But Carl still looked so shaken, and as Peter reached up to kiss him, just on the tip of the nose, Carl closed his eyes and two enormous tears emerged from underneath the lids, skidding off his long lashes and dropping onto Peter’s cheeks below. Carl’s tears mingling with his own. Peter didn’t brush them away. He found it beautiful. 

Peter reached up then, cradled that little face in his hands and looked at him, so warmly, until Carl’s expression softened. Peter searched his mind urgently for a way to lighten the mood. It was still them. It was still him and Carl, like it always was. They needed reminding of that. 

“You did hurt my feelings,” Peter said carefully, cradling that soppy face. “But my arse is alright, if that’s what you were really asking”. At that Peter cracked a huge, cheeky smile, amused by his own audacity. Carl’s eyes widened, and then he giggled, a high snort-and-giggle combo exiting his nose and mouth at once. “Was a bumpy start but don’t think there’s any permanent damage,” Peter continued merrily. Carl dropped his head out of Peter’s paws and nuzzled against his neck, another high giggle sounding so sweet close to Peter’s ear. “Stop it,” Carl chided, and kissed his cheek. 

Tension successfully broken, Carl leaned up on his elbows, eyes glinting. He raised his eyebrows. Peter nodded. Silently, they decided to continue. The desire was still burning, their senses still very alight. 

“Do you think...” Peter started, looking down the length of their bodies, “We could do it like this?” After a beat he added shyly: “I’d like to look at you”. Carl gave an equally shy smile in response, glanced downwards and made an assessment. “I think so?” he replied, and began shuffling himself up on top of Peter, wedging himself between his thighs. “You just have to get your legs up,” he said. “Like, over me head?” Peter asked. “Not over your bloody head,” Carl chided. “Just... here give me...” he started to explain, but instead he just grabbed Peter’s thighs and hoisted them onto his hips. “About there should do it... hold on...” Carl said, and he was reaching down between them to see if he could successfully angle his way inside, his eyes staring upwards thoughtfully as he felt around. That’s when Peter started giggling madly. “Stop it,” Carl said, though he was now also struggling to stop himself laughing. It was all kind of farcical, he had to admit.

This was good, Peter thought. This was them. This was exactly how it should be, and how it should feel. Scared as they were. Confused as they were. It should feel like them. And it did. 

Carl found his way to where he was going and gave Peter a quick poke. “Owww!” Peter cried out. He was partly being dramatic for effect but Carl looked genuinely embarrassed. “Sorry,” he said. “Hold on...” He brought his hand back up and dribbled some spit onto his fingers before the hand disappeared between them again. “Don’t think that’s recommended,” Peter said. “D’you want butter out of the fridge? Be like that scene from Last Tango in Paris,” Carl joked, a lovely wry expression on his face. “We don’t have any,” Peter answered matter-of-factly. At that Carl emitted another fantastic nasal giggle. “Shhhh” he said. “Or I’m not going to be up to it in a second”. “Sorry, sorry, do go on,” Peter said, but he giggled some more anyway. 

Carl got in position and reared forward against him then, and Peter took a breath, felt that slide, that suddenly inescapable intensity, then Carl’s hips were again swinging against him, a hot rhythm that in very short order made those same short gasps fly involuntarily from Peter’s throat. Carl looked up up at Peter, locked into him, his blue eyes so focused, so alive. Peter's own eyes switched from twinkling to fiery. He nodded, just acknowledging the pleasure coursing through him, lips parted, and flashed a toothy smile that was momentarily disassembled by a moan. 

Carl was staring all the while at his beautiful, whimpering friend, who lay before him, tear-streaked but smiling, vulnerable, brave and brazen, flushed from fucking - he was everything that moved Carl, that shook him to the core, all at once, and it was all too much. 

They kissed, over and over, their fingers knotting together, hands clasping above Peter's head on either side of the pillow. Peter wrapped his legs higher around Carl's skinny waist, pulled him forward, brought him closer, deeper, and just stared at him, his dark eyes begging for something in return. 

Both their gazes were awash with lust and loss, both equally heartbroken. The storm was over, the gentle force of genuine affection overtook them both, their eyes fell closed, just for a moment, just feeling it, and they were making love. 

Carl's mouth latched blindly onto Peter's, grinding inside him in languid but relentless thrusts, moans escaping his open, puffy lips and dying against Peter's tongue. He felt once more as though he were falling, felt for a moment as if he was stronger than the fear and doubt pushing the two of them so meanly apart. 

Peter soon enough became aware of that same tickling, sweet flow of pleasure moving from far within him, growing with each of Carl’s delicate thrusts — he was hard as hell in an instant, and he instinctively reached for his cock then, thoughtlessly pleasuring himself between their bodies, his fist scraping Carl’s belly as he seesawed over him. 

Carl looked down, watched Peter’s hand moving against him, against himself. Peter watched Carl watch, his chin tilting upwards, his lips parting, inviting a kiss that Carl immediately delivered him, Carl’s tongue rolling hard against Peter’s tongue, spit mingling deliciously. Carl’s nostrils flared with lust as he pulled out of that kiss, and he fell down on one elbow, freeing his other arm to reach for Peter’s cock, to do it for him. Peter moaned stupidly loudly when Carl grabbed hold of him, and although it threw his rhythm off, Carl managed to treat Peter to a few delicious minutes of those lovely, slender fingers tugging him off while he was messily, passionately being fucked. 

Peter felt that flow now, he could feel his impending orgasm snaking through his body, and he wanted Carl properly, wanted that constant, ceaseless flow of Carl thrusting into him as he came. Peter pushed Carl’s hand away and reclaimed his own cock, and Carl understood, implicitly, what he wanted. He climbed back up on both his arms, looked Peter so, so sexily in the eyes and sped up his motion, sped up the fluid waves and waves of his circling hips to fall in time with the flick of Peter’s hand on his own cock - their bodies colliding in perfect rhythm. 

Peter let out an almighty gasp, his eyes slamming shut. That heat poured in, so violent that he felt as if it came through every vein, every synapse, every living cell he had and - not fireworks, he’d never call it fireworks - but for a split second Peter was genuinely blinded by white light flashing behind his eyelids. And then he came - moan after moan as it kept going on for what felt vastly longer than it ever had, a splash of hot come following after, flying upwards and across Carl’s stomach.

Peter opened his eyes and Carl, still rocking above him, even faster now, nearing the end, was looking down at that streak of glistening wetness on his belly, muscles straining underneath it, looking down at Peter’s hand working himself through the last drops of it, and he just said, “aw fuck” - so much air in the words they came out like a coquettish hiss. 

Carl looked up at Peter, met his eyes, saw that they’d grown damp with tears again - not with pain, but with love, with enormous, uncontrollable love, and Carl could see that as clearly as if Peter had said the words. 

“You're so fucking beautiful," Peter breathed through a pant of emotion, and then Carl was coming, a jolt of joy bursting through his body, a hot gush of sheer pleasure, rattling him, pushing through each muscle a shudder, a spasm of energy, followed by a helpless cry. 

Peter watched Carl come inside him, his blue eyes glazing with molten warmth, a new, untamed look of pure physical release Peter had never seen in them before, then finally, involuntarily clamping shut. His fingers hooked into Carl's damp back as he shook, holding him close, absorbing all of it, until his body rocked to a stop. 

Carl just slumped over him, as if his strings had been cut, and he lay atop Peter for a moment, kissing his open neck, his mouth so hot and damp, still moving inside him with tiny leftover motions, collecting those last tendrils of this strange, glorious thing. 

When Carl finally pulled away and lay on the bed beside him, Peter felt it - the unexpectedly gratifying sensation of Carl’s come, wet and warm, trickling gradually between his legs. 

Peter reached for his friend, he needed him a little longer, so he pulled him back into his arms, enveloped in something that felt as much like a boundless victory as it did a great, agonising defeat. The weight of everything he couldn't have, in this moment was so real and visceral. 

Carl eased down onto his elbows and kissed Peter one last time. It was a long, sweet kiss, the taste of sweat on their lips, an unguarded moment, and it was perfect. 

Then he clambered off him, and buried himself in the sheets. 

They didn't say a word to each other after that. There was nothing to be said. They lay there side by side, shell-shocked, dwindling turmoil petering away, processing it, just for a while. Then they retreated inside themselves, like they always did. 

Wrapping himself in a blanket, Carl eventually got up and awkwardly fished his clothes out from the tangled bedding and up off the floor, throwing Peter his underwear and pants and shirt when he'd come across them in his search. 

They both dressed, shakily and uneasily, looking away from each other, and they didn't return to the bed. Instead they meandered aimlessly to the loungeroom, not really sure what they’d do in there before Carl thought to retrieve a half-full bottle of whiskey from where he hidden it in the kitchen cupboard, behind the expired porridge. Quite cleverly, he thought. 

“That's where me whiskey went," Peter tried to joke, getting a sympathetic smile in response as Carl dug around for some cups to pour it into. 

Peter flipped on the TV and sat on the couch, pulling his knees to his chest, feeling quite vulnerable, quite fragile, bare feet clinging around the edge of the cushion. 

Carl walked round and sat beside him, a certain exhaustion to his movements that seemed far more than physical, and handed Peter one of the cups. "Thank you Carlos," Peter said, then went to say something more, but couldn’t find anything adequately soothing. Carl just nodded in his usually sheepish fashion. 

They lit cigarettes, lighters clicking through the long silence between them, until it got too obvious no one was speaking. Peter had to ask, just like Carl had asked that very first night they were together. "Are we okay Biggles?" he said timidly, suddenly feeling strange using Carl’s sweetest nickname. Carl nodded again. "We're okay Peter," he said. He didn't use Peter’s nickname in turn, but that was alright. The tone of his voice was kind and apologetic. 

Carl steeled himself, gulped his drink - he had more to say, and it wasn't easy. "You're my best friend," he mumbled, staring ahead blindly, at nothing. "I love you and I always will". "I know," Peter replied quietly. 

Another heavy silence transpired between them. Peter sipped his drink, Carl stared at the TV, an advert flashing yellow and red light into the darkened room. "Change the bloody channel," Carl finally grumbled, breaking the tension. Peter grappled for the remote in the couch cushions, found it, and flipped until he found an old movie – black and white gangsters spraying bullets and screams dancing across the small screen. Neither of them were really watching it, though. 

"Can I ask just one thing Carlos?" Peter said after a moment. Carl lifted his head then, expectantly, not really acquiescing, not really denying him, but he continued staring dead ahead. So Peter just asked. "What did it feel like?" he said, looking down shyly into his drink as he did. Carl's face flushed at the inquiry, but he felt he owed him some response. "Not really different to doing it that way with a girl, I suppose," he mumbled, his voice fast and fraught. But he knew that’s not what Peter was really asking. He paused, worked up the courage, then answered the real question. “But... more intense” - another pause - “Than with anyone else”. 

Peter nodded, his eyes welling just a little. He blinked the tears away. "Did you like it?" he ventured after a moment, pushing for a connection he already knew he wouldn't be bestowed. "You said one question," Carl answered, more curtly this time. 

Peter frowned and let it drop, but after a loaded moment Carl unexpectedly threw the question back. "Did you?" he muttered quickly, nervously. Peter turned to him, tried to catch Carl's eyes, but he was staring determinately at the TV. "It was different to how I thought it'd be," Peter replied honestly, but his tone was uneven and his voice whisper soft. "But I liked it, quite a lot". Peter suddenly felt so awfully shy, as if he might actually blush, but he kept his eyes on Carl, registering his response.

Carl's face twisted into an unfamiliar tension that Peter couldn't really read. He had dared ask Peter the question mostly because he wanted to make sure it hadn’t all gone too far, that he hadn't traumatised him somehow. 

But the answer Carl got caused him turmoil instead of the simple reassurance he'd anticipated. It raised questions he didn't want to deal with - about how they'd act around each other now, what it meant that they'd made love, and that they'd both so naturally enjoyed it. 

What confused him most, however, is that he didn't feel any differently about Peter - or at least, he didn't care for him any less. There was no dark stain left on his heart, no force of repulsion pushing him away, as he thought there might be. He loved him just the same, and wanted him to stay close to him just as much. Maybe even more. After wondering so often how he'd feel about Peter after they took this step, the only thing Carl was afraid of when faced with the actuality of its volatile aftermath, was losing him. 

There was yet another coarse silence before they exchanged a blunt, skittish smile, eyes meeting briefly, offering each other some small token of mutual assurance. "It's kind of strange though, isn't it?" Peter said softly. "To think about". Carl allowed a tiny laugh to a travel through his nose. "We are strange," he said, but he smiled with genuine affection, and finally, properly met Peter's eyes. It comforted him, the warmth and love he saw shining back at him from their dark brown depths. They shyly looked at one another for a little longer, exchanged a sheepish laugh, then turned their attention back to the screen. 

As they sat in the glare of the TV, the night slipping way, Carl soon enough slid his head onto Peter's shoulder, into that little nook in his neck. Back in his favourite spot. Safe. 


	9. Chapter 9

There was no real conversation about what had happened. Not the next day or the next. By the third, Carl said one thing - just one thing - as they sat on the floor across from one another working on a tune. He stopped mid strum, stared at Peter forlornly, and mumbled: “It can’t happen again you know”. Peter looked dumbfounded. What could he say to that? “Okay,” he answered, clearly angry, and hurt, too, but in a way that wasn’t worth a fight. Instead he just got up off the floor, took his guitar with him and went to his room to play the song, alone.

After a few minutes Carl got up and followed him in there. Peter eyed Carl suspiciously as he stood sheepishly in the doorway but he was pleased, too - he took it as a sign that perhaps he could disregard what Carl had just said. He nodded for Carl to sit down on the bed, and they resumed strumming and plotting, that thick, confusing atmosphere floating above their heads. 

Carl had tried to say it - make it clear that it was over - for three days straight, but the words wouldn’t come. He blurted it out then and there because he found a brief slither of bravery that allowed the vocalisation to almost spontaneously manifest. He had to say it, so he did. And he was convinced, convinced, that he meant it. 

Two seperate but equally pressing concerns had arisen for those boys in the befuddling days after they took that great leap into the unknown. 

Peter was increasingly lovelorn and with mounting urgency he became certain he had to tell Carl how he felt. That he loved him. Properly loved him. Was in love with him. Madly in love with him, at that. He had no plan as to what would happen after his confession, but he allowed himself to feel optimistic. He was sure that if he told him, if he said it out loud, Carl would realise he felt the same way. But when? He kept waiting for the right moment, but those first days that had followed their lovemaking were skittish and tense. Carl wasn’t withdrawn from Peter - if anything, he was rather clingy with him, curiously following him from room to room all day, excitedly blathering about nothing of real consequence, a visible anxiety rattling through his slim limbs. But he also wasn’t at all affectionate. Neither of them tried to share a hug or cuddle, as they usually might. Peter and Carl alike didn’t know how to navigate that yet, and moreover Peter didn’t trust himself not to just shove his tongue down Carl’s throat the moment he touched him. 

Turns out Carl was having more or less the same problem. Carl had been determined to see it as an ending, to knock that desire out of the park and just resume their lives, like all of it never happened. Once it was done, it was done, surely. Problem was, living so closely with Peter, spending so much time with him, Carl realised, with a fair bit of both darkness and excitement, that he could have him pretty much whenever he wanted. He energetically worked not to think it, but his subconscious and his body did the thinking for him. 

He couldn’t get himself away from Peter. Even if he had no intention of making any sort of move, Carl just wanted to be in the same room as him. All the time. There was an electricity, a frisson in the air between them, that he couldn’t stop huffing like some gloriously stupefying drug. Knowing Peter wanted him, seeing the way he looked at him - the desire to act upon that ceaseless permission grew exhausting to fight. He'd catch himself staring Peter down across the room, eyes charged with lust, catch himself waking aroused and frustrated and having to deny himself the very real possibility of simply crawling into Peter's bed and having his way with him.

Carl was torn and shaken by the realisation that the sex they'd had was the most intense and fulfilling of his young life, and that even thinking of it in passing, even for a split second, sent an erotic electricity surging through his body. One thing was certain - fight it as he might, Carl still wanted Peter, and he didn't know how to turn that desire off. 

The struggle manifested most acutely one afternoon when he ambled into the kitchen to find Peter there, dressed in only an open robe and underwear, the boyish little potbelly which earned him the nickname "Pigman" poking out, soft and inviting, his eyes wide and bright, his hair a nest of dark mangled fluff, tousled by sleep. He smiled widely at Carl, so gorgeously, and chomped on the slice of toast on his hand.

Carl stood at the other side of the table, watching Peter's calmness, his beatific casualness, his ever-exaggerated, bewitching movements, while his own body was so tense and his expression so loaded with twisted desire. Peter raised his eyebrows, confused by his friend's stance. "What?" Peter asked. "Nothing," Carl replied. 

It wasn't nothing at all. Carl was having the very invasive thought that he could literally walk around to Peter, bend him over the table, and... well. He knew for sure that Peter would not only let him, but welcome it, and that very thought sent a thunderous, involuntarily crack of erotic energy through him entirely - feet to face, he felt a little flushed. The instinct to act on the idea was compelling, and he was aching with the strain of holding it down. 

Carl found himself making that trip, round to Peter, and stood behind him where he sat. Peter looked up at him, brown eyes so huge and quivering, mouth pouting adorably, a single crumb of toast on his plump bottom lip, as Carl lay his hands on Peter's shoulders, and squeezed. It was a simple physical exchange, one that could be construed as friendly, but it was then that Peter realised: it wasn't affection Carl was gripping him with, it was something else - something achingly sexual. 

Their eyes locked together and Carl registered the shift in Peter's gaze from confusion to invitation. He knew. Carl abruptly let go of Peter's shoulders and stormed to his room without another word. “Carlos!" Peter called out after him, completely impulsively. Carl shuffled around, then emerged cautiously from around the door of his cupboard.  
“What?" he called tensely down the hall.  
Peter hesitated, then called back: “Come back here”. There was an offer in his tone, unmistakably, and it was an absolute misstep. Carl felt a surge of rage at Peter's audacity to dare give voice to, to make real, what had so secretly, in his mind, just transpired. “Absolutely not!” Carl yelped childishly, and slammed his door. Peter looked down at the toast in his hand, and dropped it. He'd lost his appetite.

At the end of the day, Carl went out and didn't come home, which, that first night, left Peter more angry than despondent. But when he did it twice more that week, Peter began to feel a grief he dearly hoped he never would again. Missing Carl was worse than fighting with him, worse than all the weird tension. He understood what had happened, what Carl was fleeing from. He saw the barely-tamed attraction in Carl’s eyes in the kitchen, he saw how wild and huge it was inside him. And Peter also knew that Carl was trying his absolute best to fight it, to literally run from it. That was what ached the most - that Carl wouldn’t let himself go, and just love him. 

Carl stayed out as often as he could over that fortnight, and when he was home, he went out of his way to find excuses not to be alone with Peter if he could help it. He couldn’t stand feeling magnetised to Peter’s side, barely breathing for all the turmoil every smile and every soft gaze of those needy, bottomless brown eyes caused him. Suffering when he touched him, yearning when he didn’t, and worst of all, daydreaming about shagging him, constantly - over the kitchen table and the kitchen sink and the couch and the armchair and the stove and whatever else piece of furniture he laid his eyes on when Peter was in the room. It was fucking horrible, and he had to get out of that black hole of a claustrophobic flat, before he threw himself off the roof of it. 

He had stay away from Peter, he told himself, even though he knew in his heart that he missed him horribly. Distance was an ineffective bandaid, as he soon discovered. The unhealthy tension of wanting Peter when his was with him was not at all tempered by the sorrow of missing him when he wasn't. It was hard to be around him and harder to be without him. Harder still when he did encounter him in the flat, Peter with that forlorn look on his face, that trembling lip, the way he’d gaze hopefully at Carl with a hint of excitement and relief when he walked through the front door, only to seem visibly crushed when Carl strode past spikily and ignored him. All of it was terrible, terrible, to the point where Carl briefly wondered if he shouldn’t just murder them both and be done with it. 

Inevitably Carl coped the only way he could - he fell into a deeply dark mood that saw him withdraw completely from everyone around him. After solid two weeks of dodging Peter in the hallways of their own apartment, Carl came home, went into his room, and stayed there. He didn’t go to work, he barely got out of his bed, holed up for days in his little cupboard, drunk or sleeping. The rest of the time he barely spoke, unless he was wasted, and then he'd just complain how pointless everything was while Peter impotently tried to convince him otherwise by waxing lyrical about the fanciful dreams they shared, the beautiful things that were coming to them, together. Carl would wander off to bed, gloomy and unconvinced. 

It’s not that Peter had forgiven Carl for the hell of abandonment he’d just been put through for what felt like literal years. It had been far worse than all those nights he lay awake wondering if Carl was going to arrive at his bedside. It was worse because every time Carl left he knew he wasn’t coming back. Occasionally he’d worry Carl wasn’t coming back at all, ever again. He elaborately imagined arriving home to find all of Carl’s belongings packed away and gone without so much as a note left behind - the thought caused Peter so much panic that he didn’t dare leave the house for more than a speedy trip to the off-license. On top of everything else even when Carl was home, he’d given Peter nothing, no warmth or assurance, nothing at all. 

But this was different. Carl had driven himself into a world of sorrow, and whether he liked it or not, he needed Peter to help him. That was a task Peter valiantly and selflessly took on, burying the offence he’d suffered to deal with later. Carl needed him, so he was there. 

It'd happened before and Peter knew the signs. He also knew in reality, there wasn't much he could do to lift Carl out of the gloom but be there, and show him he wasn’t alone, and that he was loved. Still, he tried. Four days straight days of moping and dithering misery from Carl was more than enough to frighten Peter into action, so, well into the afternoon of a sunny Monday during which Carl hadn't emerged from his bed at all, Peter picked up his guitar and took it into Carl's room.   
He wasn't even sleeping in there, Peter saw immediately. Carl was laying on the bed, literally staring at the ceiling. He glanced at Peter, just barely, when he walked in. "What?" He mumbled. Peter shrugged, guitar in hand. "Do you want to hear a song?" he asked. Carl shook his head no. Peter went to plan b - try to massage his ego. "Could use your help with it," he said, trying to sound as plausibly under-confident as possible. In truth he thought it was more or less finished. 

It worked well enough, as expected. A small spark lit up Carl's eyes for the first time in a week. "Alright" he mumbled, even less coherently than his greeting, and moved his legs out of the way so Peter could sit down on the edge of the mattress. Peter played him the song, deliberately stumbling over parts, until Carl finally sat up. "Come out to the couch, I'll get my guitar," he said. Peter had to force himself to uncurl the smile that involuntarily crossed his face. 

Carl followed him out and, after a fair bit of back and forth and bashing at chords until nightfall, Peter did in the end take his suggestions. The song changed, became theirs, and once it was done, Carl seemed tired, what enthusiasm he did muster visibly waning. His body appeared to shrink as the room grew dark. “I'm going back to bed," Carl told him, getting up and laying his guitar against the couch. Peter nodded, he couldn't do much else. He'd given it his best go. Peter watched him walk away, heavy in his movements, but Carl stopped and turned to him. "It's a belter, that," he said. Peter smiled, unashamedly this time, and Carl offered him just a hint of a smile back, a split second nod of approval, before he turned and vanished into his room. 

Peter sat up smoking, strumming, jotting things in his journal for a time, but eventually he himself grew weary enough to decide he'd too have an early night for once. It was barely past ten, and Peter hadn't been to bed that early in... a year at least, he figured. Maybe two. But he hoped he could wake up early too, maybe Carl would be in a better mood, and maybe they could spend the day together, writing some more. 

Moments after he stripped down to his shirt and boxers, slipped under the covers and flipped off the lamp, he heard the door of Carl's room creak open. He listened in the dark, trying to figure out what Carl was up to. There was the sound of shuffling and a few bottles on the floor being knocked over, then a slow sink weighing on the mattress when Peter realised Carl was crawling into bed beside him.

Peter was curled on his side and turned part way back toward Carl as he shyly ambled in. He knew Carl had come to him because he was unhappy. He could feel the cold waves of sorrow reverberate from Carl's body as if they had made a physical manifestation. "What can I do?" Peter asked. Carl wrapped his arm around Peter's waist and drew him close. "Just need a hug," he whispered. Peter reached back and ruffled his hair, then made himself comfortable, leaving just a touch of distance between them. He tried not to connect to the selfish warmth of relief, the quiet joy of having Carl’s arms around him again, the blissful closeness of his body after so many cold days of absence. He let all that go, and willed himself to stay in the moment, to just be here with his friend, who needed comfort and nothing more. 

Peter found himself dozing fairly fast, enjoying the proximity of Carl's body beside him, the rise and fall of his breathing. But as he drifted off he noticed Carl wasn't relaxing, wasn't close to calming down at all. As his own body grew slack and sleepy, Carl's arm became more rigid and tense around him. "You can let go if you want," Peter said, assuming incorrectly that Carl had stopped feeling secure in their embrace. Carl didn't say anything, instead, he dragged Peter across the small space still left between them and rubbed his nose, and then his mouth against Peter's neck. The peaceful lull Peter had felt minutes before evaporated as he realised what Carl was starting, what he was timidly inviting. Peter's pulse sped up, his body came alive, and he was now most definitely awake. 

Carl didn't climb into Peter's bed with the intention of doing anything but sleeping. At least not consciously. He really did just need a cuddle, and it had not escaped his attention how hard Peter had worked all week to try and draw him out of his sadness. Of course he noticed when Peter played bum notes on purpose, but he appreciated the effort too much to ignore it. It was how hard he saw Peter try that made Carl come out of his shell long enough to seek relief. 

But the temptation he'd avoided for weeks was irresistible with Peter in his arms. It was an unwise move to try and lay down with him this way. He should have known that the charming innocence of the two of them platonically sharing a bed had been obliterated, if it ever existed at all. He didn't have a chance against the pull of his desire at this overt proximity. He realised it, and Peter had realised now it too. 

Neither of them tried to fight it, not much. Peter submitted to the pressure of Carl's mouth on his neck with a boyish whine of pleasure, of longing, and the sound seemed as riveting and deafening as a church bell to Carl's ears. He wanted to hear it again, so he parted his lips, kissed the skin he'd been caressing, and there it was, louder this time, a small moan that translated to a plea. 

Carl took his arm off Peter's waist, gripped his shoulder and turned him around towards him. They faced each other, Carl hovering over him, eyes lustful but sad, Peter's worried and wild with enormous need. It was Peter who reached up and took Carl's face in one hand. Carl's eyes came immediately closed, he pressed his cheek into Peter's palm, then he kissed it, fast and forcefully like it wasn't his hand that he wanted to kiss at all. Peter's fingers slid up and into Carl's hair then, and he gripped a small handful, pulling Carl's head towards him in a manner more aggressive than Carl was accustomed to from him. It didn't frighten him the way it might have months ago, even weeks ago. It excited him, to be wanted, and more so to be wanted by someone who he wanted with equal ferocity. 

Carl was never before convinced of being truly loved or needed by anyone. But he knew that Peter loved him, needed him, and would do anything for him. The irony was that the very reason he was so deeply drawn to Peter was also the reason he so viciously rejected him. 

Tonight however, Carl needed to be loved. When Peter's grip in his hair drew their mouths together, the kiss felt bottomless. A ravenous hunger gripped them both; they fell so hard into it that their teeth knocked together, and after a brief giggle from Peter that made Carl smile, truly smile easily and properly for the first time in weeks, he bore back down into Peter's mouth, smothering his murmurs. 

Carl was on an altogether different wavelength than Peter, who was convincing himself at every step that what they were doing was alright. It's just kissing, Peter told himself. And when Carl's fingers danced their way under his shirt, up along his stomach to his chest, one thumb dragging over his nipple, making him emit a clipped moan of pleasure directly into Carl's mouth, he told himself it was just touching. They'd touched so many times, it was alright, no one was going to get hurt. 

The shortening list of excuses continued when Carl's hand kept moving, back down Peter's stomach, across his torso, and skid over the outline of his erection in his boxers. He told himself they'd done all of this, over and over, and they were still okay. No matter that Carl promised never to do it again. No matter that it'd almost destroyed them once already. 

Carl's fingers shortly thereafter clumsily clawed under the band of Peter's underwear, and when Carl's hand wrapped around his cock Peter pulled away from his mouth, wrapped both arms around Carl's neck, smothered himself in his hair, rocked him gently against his chest, and sighed. Peter had become fearful that he'd never feel those fingers touch him so intimately again, and the only emotion he could describe it as when they did, was relief.

There was an unexpected tenderness to the proceedings, perhaps because Carl was feeling so depleted. But the chaos with which they’d entirely mauled one another three weeks prior they couldn't manifest at all. Carl touched Peter softly, his hand curling around his cock and measuredly moving with the rock of Peter's arms around his neck. Peter all the while, in his own head, was telling himself it was fine, they'd be okay. 

After several minutes of the touching, the sighing, the embrace, Carl climbed out of Peter's arms and sat up beside him. Peter assumed he was repositioning himself so that Peter could return the favour rather than just moan quietly into his hair, but instead he stripped off his shirt, then rolled about under the bedding getting off his underwear, tossing both on the floor. 

Peter was delighted at the fast approaching promise of their naked bodies being tangled around one another. It wasn't what they usually did, during all those drunken late night tussles - clothes were generally half removed or shoved aside. Except for, of course, when they... well, Peter didn't dare think about that now. He didn't even dream it for a moment. That wasn't what this was, he was assured of that. 

Still he followed suit and pulled off his shirt, but before he could strip off his own boxers Carl reached under the blankets and hoisted them down and off his legs for him, letting Peter finish the task by kicking them off his feet, out from under the covers and over the edge of the bed. 

Carl looked down at Peter then, just a corner of a smile appearing and disappearing, before he slipped under that last layer of covers, and climbed right on top of him, his mouth coming down onto Peter's at the same time as his every part of him at once: their wet lips plastered together, their tongues, their bare thighs meeting, their arms wrapped around one another's shoulders, their torsos winding in unison into a hard grind, their stomachs, their chests, melded together, their skin pressed into one mass by the weight of Carl's body bearing down upon Peter's body, accompanied by mutual, sensual moan. 

The sensation was so pleasing, so submerging, that they kept it up for some time - the kissing, the grinding, the pair of them sliding their painfully urgent erections against each other, mimicking, they both realised, the oceanic rhythm of fucking. For a protracted stretch they'd vanished into a straightforward, pleasure driven stupor, Peter in particular relishing it, the mutual tenderness of it, the ability they had to disappear into it. 

He was unceremoniously jolted out of that peaceful momentum however by Carl rapidly dislodging himself from his arms, grabbing hold of Peter's legs by his thighs, and hoisting them up onto his hips, holding them there as he arranged his crotch down between them. Peter's response to the sudden change in the action, to the obvious and shocking progression of it, was an audible gasp of panicked surprise. It was loud and troubling enough to make Carl stop, letting Peter's legs fall by either side of him. He slumped down close to him instead. 

Carl lay his forehead against Peter's, the tips of his fingers reaching up and raking his cheek. "Do you not want to?" he asked Peter in a near whisper. Peter's lips shook as he spoke. "You said we weren’t doing that again," he answered, swallowing hard, his mouth suddenly feeling oddly dry. Nerves - he realised. He was nervous, and not the way he was the first time, when he had no idea what it would be like, what the aftermath would be. This was a blinding fear, a very real knowledge of everything that was coming next and everything that could go wrong afterwards, and Carl could hear it in his voice. But he didn't care. It was his turn to be self destructive, to be a swirling pit of need. 

“But do you want to?" Carl asked again, this time punctuated with a scrape of his teeth along Peter's neck, a little bite, and his drenched thick bottom lip trailing over the small red mark he'd made, a process which made Peter genuinely quiver.   
"I'm scared honestly," Peter said suddenly, his voice high and thin. Carl's mouth returned to Peter's neck, for a featherlight flick of his tongue. "Of what?" he asked,. "Of you, mostly... After," Peter answered, his eyes dampening with emotion at the words. "We’ll be alright," Carl said gently, running his hand through Peter’s her, looking at him tenderly - but there was a shake in his voice that Peter heard, and that gave away the lie. Carl lay his forehead against Peter's once again, his hand sliding between their bodies, down along Peter's torso, trailing through the softness of the hair there, and gripping his cock for a series of short, hard pumps and letting go again, leaving Peter teaming with an abundant sense of incompletion. Peter's lips parted, and he just breathed, laboured and thin. 

“It's alright" is what Peter had been hearing knock around unconvincingly in his own skull the whole time. It was as if Carl had reached into his head and pulled out the words he needed to hear.   
Carl's tongue slid into the inviting sight of Peter's open mouth then, ahead of the force of his lips pressing down with deliberate intensity. Peter whimpered, and clung to him, his fingertips pressing into the back of Carl's neck, white spots appearing on the skin underneath them at the pressure. Carl kept kissing him, kept moving over and over between his lips and his neck, as Peter grew increasingly pliable beneath him. 

Carl realised he was making Peter weak. He realised he was manoeuvring him towards the response he wanted, and he knew it wasn’t fair. It wasn't going to be alright. He knew that and Peter knew it too. It was cruel to promise it, because he was entirely aware that Peter would want to believe him so badly that he would convince himself it was true. Long enough to say yes, and let himself get hurt. 

Peter found the will to interrupt. He pulled away from their kiss and looked Carl in the eyes through the dark, still holding onto his neck as if it was a buoy in a river of doubt. He'd already decided he wanted this, but he had a stipulation, a slither of control he wanted to maintain. "Promise you won't be mean and cold and cruel after," he said. There was bravado in his voice but the expression on his face looked so vulnerable, the open hearted offering of a boy who was much too easy to damage. 

Carl caved in. He couldn't lie right to that soft face. Not when Peter had danced around him all day, all week, trying in vain to make him happy. Carl met his insistent glare. "I don't know how I'll be," he replied honestly. Peter absorbed it, all the heartbreak that could follow flowing through his eyes. But a surprising look arose, bold and strong, that followed the fear. Carl recognised it - Peter’s uncanny resilience. His willingness to throw himself into the arms of fate. His ability to invite pain, to take a beating. 

Peter nodded then. "Alright," he said, that misleading, evil lie of a word. "But not like this," he added, casting his eyes down Carl's body. He liked looking at Carl when they made love - well what little experience he had of it - but he somehow felt a little too exposed to relive that tonight. "Let me just... hop off me," he said. 

A strange new atmosphere took the place of the mangled, erotic intensity of the past half hour. They were suddenly dealing with crude logistics. Carl felt slightly flummoxed by the directive and even more so by Peter taking the lead, but he did as he was asked. He rolled off onto his back and looked to Peter for further direction, which he found vaguely exciting but more so unnerving. He didn't have a choice really, Peter was clearly mapping out what was happening next whether Carl liked it or not. 

Peter just hopped onto his side, and waited for Carl to figure out he wanted him to approach. It took him a second, but when it occurred to him that Peter had gotten into the position he wanted to be in, he arranged himself alongside him, placed his hand gingerly on Peter's hip, and nuzzled the back of his neck. As he did though, he wondered briefly why Peter didn't want to face him. No he knew why, really. Even Peter, who'd suffer through just about anything to have Carl close, wanted to take the edge off the ferocity of what they were about to do. To be just a little safe from him, from someone who’d hurt him - and realising that made Carl feel a stinging stab of guilt. 

But for now, he had what he wanted, what he’d both wanted and wanted desperately to avoid too, and now he actually had to do it. Without the deluge of fighting, crying and fever-pitch emotion, without liquor and drama, the reality of just having sex seemed incredibly raw. Still there was a current pushing Carl forward, an energy travelling up his spine, across his shoulders, arriving inside him as a shiver of anticipation. Peter, for his part, was downright shaky. As Carl kissed his neck, lingering long enough to project his hot breath across Peter's skin, and squeezed his hip, something of a warning that he was getting started, Peter's exhale was so jagged Carl almost felt compelled to ask him again if he really wanted to do this. He didn't say anything though, he couldn't make himself talk about it out loud another second. So he got on with it. 

Peter stared out into the darkened room, the outlines of furniture and piles of books and sundry belongings slightly illuminated by the distant glare of a street light cracking through a sliver of open curtain. He kept staring out at nothing in particular as he heard Carl spit, felt his hand return to his hip, and listened to his anxious inhales and exhales.

Carl curled around Peter's body, gave him one more kiss on the softest part of his neck, just below his ear, swallowed his nerves, took his cock in hand, and began angling it inside him. The moment Peter felt the pressure of it entering his body, so very slowly, inch by inch, he prepared himself for unbridled excitement. But it was immediately vastly more painful than it had been the first time, and each incremental push forward Carl made resulted in an involuntary, closed-mouthed groan of discomfort from Peter. 

Carl was acutely aware of how much more difficult they were finding it. He was coming up against significant physical resistance from Peter and he didn't know if it would be worse to start over or just push through it. He didn't have to make up his own mind, because after two more attempts to get properly inside him, which resulted in two increasingly louder sounds of pain, Peter's arm came up behind him and pushed Carl steadily away by the hip. "Sorry," Peter whispered quickly. He'd also considered just sticking it out - he could bear it, he thought, but it wouldn't be very pleasant. And he very badly wanted to enjoy it.

"It's okay, I think it's just needs more um..." Carl started, laying a hand on Peter's shoulder to try and comfort him. They really needed to be using something other than goddamn spit, Peter thought then, and he was annoyed at himself that he didn't at that moment posses the bravery to mention it. He was fairly sure if they paused and began a grisly treasure hunt around the apartment for things to experiment with they'd feel too strange to get back in bed and continue. But he was going to go out tomorrow and get a hold of something, just to have it, he decided, just in case. 

Feeling fairly fraught, Carl expended a solid effort dragging saliva up from his tongue and drooling a fair bit into his own hand, adding significantly more moisture and applying it to himself as best he could. As Carl did it, Peter waited, resuming that same tense game of staring out into the room, and he wondered if it would be more or less awkward if they just stopped altogether. 

Just keep going, he told himself as he felt Carl bring himself back up against his body, press his cock shallowly down against him. Carl was really quite desperate to get this properly started, if only to close the gap between their bodies which felt as if it was filled with a vat of molten mortification. There was no way to turn back. 

He leaned across Peter's shoulders and turned his face towards him, meeting Peter's mouth with his own, and kissed him, whisper soft and languidly, Peter's sweet little mews rising in his throat as he did. Carl took his lips away after a time, kissed Peter's cheek, and lay briefly against it. "Ready?" he asked him quietly. Peter nodded vigorously, eyes remaining closed, and turned his head away, laying nose-down on the pillow. Carl repositioned himself, and with a deep breath, tried again. He reared forward at a crawl, taking immense care, strictly moderating his pace. As he did, Peter sighed, and let it happen. With only a little force, it took just three careful thrusts before Peter yielded to the pressure and Carl was all the way inside him, a soft sigh of pleasured relief coming from them both at once. 

Carl began moving his hips in a circular, immensely slow rhythm, and the sounds Peter was making so audibly changed. Those first few miserable grunts were replaced by short, girlish moans, and the longer it went on the more he moved with Carl, and the more noise he made, breathy gasps following each other one after the other until in a moment of dizzy passion Peter reached his arm back, wrapped it around Carl's neck, and pulled their faces together. 

For all the effort he'd made not to face him, Peter in short order was, in a round about way, doing just that. Carl's lips were within reach, so Peter kissed him, raking his fingers through Carls hair, twisting sections mindlessly in his fist, clawing at him, almost, as their tongues met. The kissing rapidly became aggressive, their mouths mashing together, Carl barely responding as he felt the distant pull and snap of loose strands breaking in Peter's grip.

Currents of electricity shooting through him, those same tingles down his back that he felt with no one else, Carl sped up the pace of his thrusts until neither of them could concentrate on kissing any longer, and lay instead with their increasingly sweaty faces plastered together, eyes closed. 

But the longer it went on, in that hollow of dark, something began to turn, to feel incomplete - it was Carl who felt incomplete, really. He'd wanted to submerge himself, get far out of of himself, fulfil that promise of that sense of abandon, of fleeting freedom. He'd reached for Peter out of far more than lust, driven as much by pent up desire as a desperation for comfort. As pleasurable and passionate as it was, there was something missing, that intangible connection that Carl fought at every other turn but needed so acutely now, tonight, in this bed. Even with their bodies so entwined, he still felt empty and ravenous for affection. Peter somehow felt too far away from him, and Carl wanted to be closer yet. He wanted to to vanish into him like had so entirely the first time. 

"Please turn round," Carl said suddenly, so sadly, too driven now by creeping darkness to hide his need. Peter opened his eyes, peered intently at Carl through the dark and he saw something shining back at him that he'd never seen before, not when they were together like this - a pleading, the kind of pleading Peter normally did - a plea for love. Aching empathy swelled till it ballooned in his chest and Peter raced to satisfy that plea, to coddle him, please him, any way he could. "Of course," he said so softly, one hand coming up to stroke Carls' face, to settle him, before he shifted and turned onto his back. 

Carl wanted to feel the weight of Peter's legs around his hips, the safety of his arms across his shoulders, the way Peter wrapped his entire body around him until they felt so indivisibly close. He wanted to look at his face, into his eyes, he wanted to lean in and kiss him easily and constantly. Carl didn't ask himself why he needed any of these things, he just knew he did. 

In seconds he had exactly that. With a murmur Peter wrapped his arms around Carl's neck, pulling Carl's face into the nook of his own, Carl's lips pressed there, gently kissing the skin beneath them, Carl's own arms circling Peter's shoulders, cradling his head. Then Peter's legs were wrapped around Carl's hips, like he wanted, and other than a brief pause while Carl reached his arm down to guide his cock back inside him, they remained glued together, the motion of everything all of a sudden languid and tender, much like it had begun. 

For all the strange, lustful rage Peter often made him feel in moments like this, even Carl needed the calm tonight, the closeness, and so he reached for it, held onto it, and let it in. As their bodies swayed in rhythmic unison, Carl pulled his face up from Peter's shoulder and kissed him, and kept kissing him, their tongues touching tenderly without pause. It was all so unwinding so slowly now, winding backwards, it seemed to Peter. But he also understood how down Carl felt, how lonely he was in his suffering, so much that he could not even give voice to it. And so Peter readily made himself a vessel for that grief, absorbing every ache and smothering it with affection, with kisses and nuzzles, strokes and murmurs, with his body in any way he could. 

They didn't stop kissing, not even when Peter had heard those sounds of closure in Carl's throat, even when he'd sped up just that little bit, his thighs moving quicker between Peter's thighs, the damp drag of their legs meeting with visceral, alluring friction. Peter pulled him down further still, held onto him even harder, until Carl's lips left his just for a moment to emit a brief but beautiful moan, and returned right back to the kiss they'd barely abandoned.

Carl had felt the gradual build of his orgasm arriving fast but without the usual chaos, just a soothing, almost therapeutic release of sorrowful energy building into something positive and warm, glowing from within him, through him, and then he came - a moment of coiling tension through his torso, pouring heat through his cock, then relaxing every muscle so thoroughly that Peter felt as if Carl had melted in his arms. 

Carl slumped down upon him with a deep, deep sigh and Peter held onto him still, his legs keeping Carl locked in place, tight arms trapping their chests together, breathing in unison. They lay like that, wrapped up together, for a long time, just holding one another. It that’s what they needed most. 

Eventually, Carl climbed up onto his elbows, and, tucking his bedraggled hair behind his ears, smiled at Peter, so sweetly, to which Peter madly, delightedly beamed back. They exchanged a kiss - a peck and first that deepened until they were lost again for a time in kissing, just kissing, Carl noticing the increasing push or Peter’s hardening cock pressing into his stomach. 

Carl pulled out of their kiss then, wriggled out of that grip, rolled beside Peter and without prompting, reached for his cock to finish him off with the same gentleness that'd come before it. And the kissing, the endless kissing, continuing long after Peter had quickly and quietly come and clambered back into Carl's arms, the pair of them side by side. 

Peter was still so driven to keep Carl happy, to somehow lock him up in the pocket of love they'd opened, and he didn't want to let him go. So he did all he could think of - he wrapped his leg protectively around Carl's thighs, sandwiching his smaller body against his own, cocooning him in the left over haze of pleasure and peace surrounding them in their crumpled sheets, valiantly trying to drive it back into Carl's chest, trying to douse him in happiness, trying to keep him safe. Peter rocked him like that, like a child, rubbing his nose against Carl's nose, kissing his cheeks, then his eyes and finally his mouth, light and languid, until they both grew tired, the lazy smacking of their lips against one another slowing to a stop as they drowned in the loveliness and peace, and began to doze. 

Peter had been asleep for a few short minutes when Carl sat bolt upright, knocking Peter's leg off him in the process. "What's wrong?" Peter asked him, his heart kicked into gear by the erratic motion. Carl steadied himself against the slight panic he'd woken in from his near-slumber. "Just going to get dressed," he mumbled, and leaned over the end of the bed to collect his shirt and underwear. He couldn't help it - Peter sighed. Loudly, long and with obvious irritation. It was the nicest thing he could remember feeling in their entire history - falling asleep naked in one another's arms, so naturally, so easily, after he'd worked so hard to soothe Carl, to literally rock him to sleep. And here was Carl interrupting that magic moment by fighting his way back into a pair of pants he had absolutely no need to be wearing. At least he was staying in the bed, Peter thought, and that was something to hold onto. 

Carl tucked himself back in and turned to Peter, nodding towards the floor. Peter knew what it meant. With another exasperated, perforative sigh, he reached over the edge of the brass frame and retrieved his own underwear, tugging it back on - over the covers though, which prompted Carl to look away. Fuck it, Peter thought. And he wasn't putting his shirt back on, he decided in protest. 

Peter got under the blankets and waited for Carl to whine about the shirt, but he didn't. He did something surprising instead. He curled on his side, turned his back to Peter, and after a few seconds of hesitant silence, almost as if he was fearing a rejection of some sort, Carl asked timidly, "I could still use the cuddle". 

His annoyance turning to nothing but dust in the air, it was without hesitation that Peter sidled up against Carl's body, spooned against him, wrapping his arm tightly around Carl's waist. He rubbed his nose against the nape of his neck, kissed the top of his head, and let Carl settle, let him fall asleep in his arms. Waiting for several long minutes, just listening to his breathing changing, making sure Carl was fitfully snoring before he even dared close his own eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

When Peter opened his eyes, Carl was already staring at him. Peter had emerged from the depths of what was moments before a dead sleep, as if even in his slumber he knew he was being looked at exactly like he was.

The first thing he saw was an expression on Carl’s face he understood was private - a look of fondness, given freely in a space where he thought it wouldn’t be seen. As soon as Carl registered Peter’s wakefulness, that split second of private affection vanished and a soft, neutral smile crossed Carl’s face instead.

Peter was charmed by that look though, the love in it, he knew that’s what he’d seen, even as sleepy-eyed as he was and as briefly as he saw it. He collected Carl with one lazy, heavy arm, drew him closer and planted a kiss on his forehead.

It wasn’t like Carl to be awake before him, nor was he often in a good mood upon waking, let alone in the position they found themselves. Peter had the sense that some sort of storm had been broken through.  
  
“What time is it?” Peter asked with a sweet animal yawn that made Carl smile and ruffle his matted hair.  
“Ten-ish” Carl replied.  
They hadn’t been up that early in, well not any time they could recall. But they’d slept soundly and were both in apparently good spirits.  
Peter asked anyway: “How are you feeling?”  
Carl smiled once more, very warmly.  
“Better,” he said, offering another hair ruffle.

There was immediately after a question in the air hanging over them both. How to act now, what they were supposed to do this morning. It was uncharted. Peter looked at Carl and Carl looked back. They smiled at the same time. Peter held that look, a wicked twinkle springing up in his eyes. Carl read it, but he wasn’t ready for where that look would lead. Not just yet. He reached for the cigarettes and lit them one both, laying the ashtray in the small space that had opened up between them.

They smoked quietly for a time, Peter animatedly billowing plumes into the air above his head, trying to offset the building tension with a display of good humour. Some small talk eventually started up, about what they might do that day since they were awake so exotically early into it. The promise of a day spent together led to a hopefulness in them both, albeit for different reasons. Peter hoped for a continuation of what they’d haplessly begun. Carl hoped for normalcy, a rug to conveniently sweep all this under and carry on obliviously.

Carl stubbed his cigarette out, and immediately began getting out of bed, setting off a panic in Peter that felt much larger than it should.  
‘Where are you going?’ he asked all too desperately.  
Carl looked back at him from the edge of the bed, an eyebrow raised at the plainly needy tone.  
‘Slash and a drink,’ he said, with a small laugh.  
Peter’s tense shoulders visibly dropped.  
‘Can you bring me a tea?’ he asked softly.  
Carl sighed. ‘Can’t be arsed. Want your water out the fridge?’ he offered instead.  
‘Yeah alright’ Peter said carefully.  
His more urgent question was whether Carl would be getting back into bed or not, but he didn’t dare ask it.

Off Carl went, alluring even in his sagging boxers and torn old t-shirt. Peter listened, very keenly, at the various sounds Carl made moving around the flat. He didn’t dare peek down the hall lest he be caught, his needful eyes met by chance, but he listened. Creak of the bathroom door, trickling waterfall into the loo, seat falling – polite, he thought – then the groaning floorboards all the way to the kitchen. Fridge opening, bottle opening – he’s definitely drinking my water, Peter tutted – and then feet padding back to the bedroom, by which time Peter had made himself feel rather panicky.

Carl emerged in the doorway with a clearly half-drunk bottle of Peter’s favourite mineral water in hand. Peter took it from him and regarded the waterline but didn’t say anything. He had more pressing concerns. Carl hovered near the edge of the bed for a moment, which left Peter feeling the kind of anticipation you might right before a roller-coaster drops. Then Carl just lifted up a wedge of tangled bedding, and got back in. Peter’s inhale and exhale of relief at that moment was audible enough that Carl caught on, and he felt a selfish little burst of warmth at realising just how badly his proximity was wanted. He’d never intended not to get back in, but it pleased him that Peter worried he might not.

Peter unscrewed the cap and supped on his bottle, eyeing Carl sideways, who was, so far, just lying there, staring into the middle distance like he often does, as if thinking something over. Peter was starting to feel antsy in a way that might provoke him to make a move, however ill advised. He just wanted to know what was coming next even if he had to force a conclusion. Unbeknown to him, Carl was working up the courage to do… anything. It would have been easier if he’d done it right away when they woke, if he hadn’t got out of bed and had to get back in. But all that had passed, and now they were here.

It helped that they both knew they were here, it made things less fraught than they might have been if there was a disconnection. But there was none. They were at this juncture entirely on the same wavelength, stewing in the urge to draw closer together even as they lay inches apart. It would have been easy to proffer a cuddle had the circumstances not been as they were, but both of them knew any incremental inch forward was leading to them making love, and that was the hold up.

Peter let another tense minute go by as he loudly finished his bottle. Carl silently sitting semi-frozen next to him was driving him mad. Fine, it was going to be up to Peter, and he decided to chance it. He placed the bottle down, carefully, on the floor, and upon rising back over the edge of the bed he kept his momentum until he’d rolled round and slung an arm over Carl’s waist.

A look of relief crossed Carl’s face – the effort had been made for him and all he had to do now was plant a kiss on Peter’s already pouting lips, which were keenly ready for it. The room felt very quiet and still as they rustled the very fabric of the morning’s peace, as gently as the sheets moved around them. They inched together in minute increments, closer and closer, until the kiss turned into a tumble, Carl shuffling his way onto Peter’s relaxed form, bent elbows, hands laid on Peter’s cheeks, his hair falling around his reaching fingers, their mouths connecting softly but continuously.  
  
This time, Peter wasn't so scared. He knew what was happening and he was nothing but hellishly ravenous for it, for any of it, for all of it. Carl felt it, even through his skin he felt it, the want and the open offering. Peter's unexpected confidence opened up a soothing sense of permission that made it feel easier for Carl to ask for what he wanted. So he did. 

"Get undressed," he mumbled and Peter nodded. Not that he had much to take off. Carl jumped off him and wrestled almost comically out of his shirt as Peter curled his knees up to his chest and easily pulled his underwear down his legs. This is why it was silly getting their clothes back on all over again. What would be so scary about sleeping naked beside one another anyway? It was ridiculous, Peter thought, as he watched Carl, now wrestling with his boxers under the covers, to do something so incredibly intimate as enter someone's body in the most invasive way possible and then be bothered about lying next to them undressed - those same body parts now neutral and harmless. But Carl was a complicated character, Peter mused. He'd just have to wear him down over time, and he intended to. 

Mission completed and what little they had on now tossed again by the bed, Carl hovered over Peter a moment, looking at him, thinking, wondering briefly if he mightn’t like to turn him over, just to start with. It wasn’t a matter of intimacy as it had been the night before, it was just pure lust. Peter watched Carl make his sparkly-eyed assessment, understanding what was being decided. He smiled at Carl so knowingly then, eyes wide and naughty, that Carl decided he’d rather like to keep his eyes on that face, especially in the exposing lightness of the room. He very much wanted to look. 

With all the comedy undressing and sexy staring Peter had forgotten his plan - he really had hoped that the next time they made love they’d have something proper to use other than just spit. He didn’t figure it would come back round the next morning. He thought he’d have some time to prepare. As Carl clambered eagerly over his prone form, Peter raced through options for what they could use other than Carl’s bloody drool. He wasn’t sure how he knew so definitely but Peter was certain they were missing out on a much better experience than the ones they were having. 

But what to use? What to use... as Carl’s hand vanished under the covers and shortly thereafter clamped around his cock, Peter’s thought process swam and fragmented. Then Carl’s mouth, sucking firmly on that soft skin underneath Peter’s ear and Christ, what could they use... he remembered the talk about butter, but they still didn’t have any and anyway, Peter didn’t feel like it would be very sexy to skip back to bed with a block of unsalted. Carl’s stupid goddamn hand and it’s quick flicks that he’d gotten so good at - he’d worked out the perfect timing, the pressure, it was maddening. Even the sound of Peter’s own breathing, laboured, pleasured breathing, was distracting. 

Peter willed himself to think, just think for a second. And then it came to him.  
“Carl!” he said with far more urgency than required. It made Carl freeze up immediately.  
“What’s wrong?” he asked, slight alarm widening his eyes.  
“Nothing. I just need a slash,” Peter rambled.  
“Now?” Carl asked. “I don’t fancy your chances”. 

It was true, if Peter managed to pee with the epic erection he was sporting it would most definitely end up everywhere but inside the actual loo.  
“Yeah, sorry, do you mind?” Peter asked with the same unnecessary urgency. He was nervous about what he was about to do, and he felt silly that he couldn’t just tell Carl outright. Carl climbed off him.  
“Of course go,” he said, though he was puzzled. Peter was definitely acting strangely. 

As Peter darted off out of bed and vanished completely naked down the hall, Carl engaged in his favourite sport - worrying. He wondered if Peter had stopped the action because he didn’t have the nerve to say he didn’t want to do it. He had seemed eager, but he’d been so reluctant and frightened the night prior that Carl wondered if Peter wasn’t rethinking the whole thing. And then on top of that Carl wondered why he cared so much. He was fairly convinced they shouldn’t have done this ever again as it was. They doubly shouldn’t be doing it now. So if Peter didn’t want to, that would make things easier. So why was he bothered that Peter might not want to? 

Carl’s thoughts were interrupted by what was distinctly the sound of sundry bathroom things falling into the sink while Peter rummaged in the cabinet. Well, that was curious. Carl tried to imagine what Peter was doing in there. If he was a girl he’d have some idea. Putting in some birth control, last minute shave - though Peter had never taken a razor anywhere below his face and Carl doubted he was about to start now. He certainly wasn’t taking his tampon out, Carl chuckled to himself. The rummaging stopped, followed by the hotly anticipated peeing, which only occasionally sounded like it was hitting the water. Great, Carl was definitely going to forget about it and step in Peter’s sticky piss later. Though that made him chuckle too. He wasn’t sure why but everything Peter was doing this morning was making him feel... strange, just strange, but in a way that he oddly wanted to keep feeling. 

Peter came barrelling through the door seconds later, the sight of him - those brimming, deer-sized eyes, those arms and legs with no end, the pale skin, the sheer smoothness of him but for the dense dark hair that cushioned a dangerous looking erection. None of this should have appealed to Carl much as it did, but it did regardless, and his stomach flipped in a way that made him feel jittery. He didn’t know what was going on with him today but Carl was definitely going through... something. 

Peter was under the covers in a quick leap and on top of Carl with another. The eagerness with which Peter landed on him so harshly made Carl laugh even as he felt a crack emanate from his ribs. It was then that Peter, with no pomp or ceremony whatsoever, waved a very manky-looking jar of Vaseline in Carl’s face. He figured the faster he did it, the easier it would be to introduce it and get it over with. Carl looked immediately aghast. 

"What's that for?" he whined.  
Peter shrugged. "I use it for a wank sometimes," he said matter-of-factly.  
"That's bloody dreadful information," Carl said with only a hint of humour.  
“Thought it might, you know. Help,” Peter said.  
Well, that made some sense, Carl figured. He narrowed his eyes and took the jar from Peter’s hand. “Where’s the lid?” he asked. “Dunno,” Peter answered. The lid had long ago tumbled into the abyss of the flat.  
Carl dared look inside the actual container.  
“There’s a bunch of… dust… and… hair… and god all sorts stuck in there!” Carl said with increasing horror.  
Peter snatched the jar back.“It’s just the top of it!” he shot back defensively.  
In went his fingers to scrape off the top layer, which, once done to Peter’s satisfaction – with Carl looking on wide-eyed and very unconvinced – Peter raised his sticky fingers in the air and looked for somewhere to deposit this snotty, dusty pile of goo.  
“Don’t wipe that on… ” Carl started, as Peter’s hand came down hard and he mushed the sludge onto the side of the mattress – “…the bed” Carl finished impotently as precisely that was happening.  
Carl sighed. Peter smiled. He held the now-scooped clean jar back in Carl’s face.  
“Good enough?” he asked.  
“I suppose,” Carl mumbled.  
He was rapidly starting to lose his starry eyed perspective on the whole thing, and he went to sit up, unsure if he was just going to sit up, or leave altogether, but a nervous energy was propelling him upwards.  
Peter calmly stopped Carl from moving.  
"Stay there," he protested, laying a gentle hand on Carl's bare shoulder.  
"I want it to feel good, that's all," Peter said softly. 

Carl felt winded by that sentence, the gentleness and expectation of it, and tentatively lay back down. He reached out to take the jar but Peter whisked it away from his slightly shaky fingers.  
“I’ll do it,” Peter said and Carl just nodded, perfectly happy not to over-engage in the process.  
Peter realised from the position he was in, sat atop Carl’s body, he could kind of just kind of... sit down really, and so he lined himself up to do that, slow enough to give Carl time to work out that’s what was happening. 

Carl eyed him very intensely, with something like alarm mixed with a heady excitement, when he worked out what Peter was fixing to do. Peter became breathless himself, and he thought quickly that he’d now set them up for an overtly exposing experience. But he was in it now, Carl knew it was coming, and if he climbed down off his perch it would potentially be more awkward than literally just ploughing ahead. Plus, he wanted to do it. So that’s what he did.  
  
Peter stuck his fingers back in the jar, scooped up a few globs of the overly sticky potion and reached behind him, making very quick work of applying it to Carl, who looked skyward and vastly less than comfortable as that particular formality went on. Peter worked twice as fast applying a little to himself. It was thick and not ideal, but it would do. 

With a sense of relief – and a little pride – at having achieved his aim, Peter fell forward on his arms and gave Carl a calming kiss. It was evident they both needed one. Their lips pressed together hard, a wily energy being transmitted and dissipated, a quick mashing of tongues, and when Peter broke their kiss to sit back up, Carl emitted a nervy exhale that indicated he’d been soothed only insofar as he wasn’t audibly panting out panic.  
  
It crossed Peter’s mind then than Carl as was nervous as he was the night before, and he understood it, he felt immense empathy for him. It was terrifying, it was dangerous. It was a danger to everything they were building, and above all they were a danger to one another, on a myriad of unpredictable fronts. There was no easy and straightforwardly happy way this could develop, and privately they both understood that. Even Peter, who defiantly tried his absolute hardest to believe in a future that’d be trounced by the magic of not unfolding precisely as expected. 

Now wasn’t the time to think, not for either of them – and Carl for one, was too rattling a bonnet of waspy nerves to form coherent thoughts anyway. He was just pure anticipation, waiting through each agonising second it took for their bodies to connect before he had any inkling of how he’d soon feel about this at all.  
  
Peter was up then, shuffling entirely into this raw and brave position, and he understood in a way he felt was instinctive – though was perhaps sourced more from his experiences in quite the opposite position with female lovers – that he was going to have to reach behind him and ungracefully stick Carl’s cock where it needed to go. Carl seemed very aware of that, too, because he was doing precisely nothing but waiting.  
  
In a sharp motion intended to look far more casual, Peter’s arm darted back, grabbed hold, and Carl arched his back, just a little, more at the vague shock of the sudden touch, and the starter pistol it sent going off his head. Then it was happening, more or less by itself, with Peter moving in just the softest increments at first, before the combination of the weight of his body and gravity pushed him downward and sped the process up vastly faster than they’d previously attempted it. 

Peter gave in to that momentum, and came down properly, and a hollow gust of breath came out of Carl’s mouth. His hand came up and he laid it on Peter’s hip, and he looked at him, kept his eyes locked on Peter’s face, but did nothing else. Peter continued to take the lead, just moving in a slow, rhythmic sway, concentrating far too astutely on the mechanics of it to yet particularly engage in the pleasure, which was, regardless, building on its own. He was watching Carl, letting him maintain that intense eye contact, watching him breathing that same airy way every time Peter came down again. It went on that way for a few long minutes, and the longer it went on, Carl seemed more rather than less tense beneath him. 

Peter supposed it was a confronting position, that perhaps there was an energy of dominance to it which made Carl uneasy. And while he could be troubled by the implications of that later, for now Peter wanted them both to be comfortable. He slid down close to Carl, cheek against his cheek, and held himself near-still a moment, rocking against Carl inside him in just the vaguest way. 

“Do you want me to hop off?” Peter asked him gently.  
“No,” Carl said, and shook his head to make that clear.  
He knew then that Peter had noticed how he was feeling, and he felt touched by the empathy, by the shared sense of connection. So he was honest.  
“I’ll be alright in a minute,” he said. “It’s just feels a bit strange”.  
Peter looked at him so sweetly, cupped his face and gave him a soft, warm peck on the lips.  
“I don’t mind,” Peter said. “Don’t force yourself”.  
Carl shook his head again. And he did something he’d never done before while they were in bed together - he let Peter into his head.  
“I’m a bit overwhelmed, but I don’t want you to stop,” he said with a tiny, nervous laugh that travelled out his nose.  
“I’m alright” he added softly.  
“Okay,” Peter said firmly, believing him, appreciating the touch of confession that he knew for Carl, was huge.  
And an emboldened look arose in Peter’s eyes, one he wanted Carl to see and to understand. He figured out then that what needed to do was more, not less. He needed to help Carl get immersed and out of his quivering skull. He needed to fuck him good and proper, is what he needed to do. 

Peter sat back up, and came down hard, then up, then harder again, until he had a particularly energetic rhythm running fluidly and he watched for it, watched for Carl’s staring expression to wash over with lust and vanish from the starkness of the room into a space of nothing but immediacy. Carl’s hand returned to Peter’s hip and the other joined it, the hands following the hips along with a growing grip that firmed up each time until it began to be a little push, a little lift, in time with each bounce. Peter watched for several increasingly frenetic moments until he saw the break – the moment Carl’s eyes glazed and the fire sprang up in them, along with an animalistic groan that signalled his departure. 

Carl’s arms came up then, both of them, grabbing Peter across the shoulders and back, pinning him down against his chest so he couldn’t move, and he took over the work of the thrusting at great speed, Peter laying his head in the crook of his neck, sweat beading on his lip, a series of gasping whines leaving his lips as he gave in to the force of Carl’s desire, his fingers whitening circles into Carl’s shoulders. His own toil for the morning done and his body swaying in helpless rhythm atop of Carl’s own, clinging on, feeling weakened and lovely.

Peter could finally, properly concentrate on the pleasure of it, of the warm slide of Carl moving inside him fluidly and fast, the feel of Carl’s arms locked across Peter’s straining muscles and tendons and veins, the meeting of wet skin growing damper as they held onto each other cruelly hard.  
  
One arm loosened and Carl gripped Peter’s hair, urgently but softly, and lifted his head to meet Peter’s lips with his own, the taste of salt on them both already, and when Carl pulled away he looked at Peter, a violent, smiling gaze in his eyes unmatched by the wanting expression on his face, and Peter knew he’d done it, he’d pushed Carl far out of his own head and into the one they shared, the place where all was heat and billowing, churning emotion darting around them as if wispy, nefarious apparitions were let loose into the atmosphere with each movement of their bodies. 

Carl was up then, collecting Peter into his lap briefly, letting him slide heavily down his cock one last delicious time, before he picked him up and bounced him easily across the mattress and onto his stomach. It impressed Peter, it gave him a searing thrill, being handled like that, and that Carl found it so effortless, even given his vastly smaller size. 

He dutifully stretched his body out languidly, smiling, like a cat, and Carl was on top of him, jutting hip bones landing a mite painfully against Peter's sides. And then Carl was kicking Peter's legs apart, that aggressive and self-serving way that he had the first time, a sensation of submission Peter found so exciting as to already emit a gasp. He lay his face across his arm, and let Carl have him. 

There was an incredibly short stretch of time between Carl lining his torso up where it needed to be and Carl entering Peter's body in one very hard, very determined shove. 'Ah, fuck!' Peter cried out, a moan slipping between the words as Carl began to move inside him at speed. Carl just kept arranging himself for what was clearly going to be a bit of a massacre - he held himself halfway up but grabbing hold of Peter's hips, pressing his fingers into Peter's skin. He immediately took off both very hard and very fast, Peter panting through a hot sensation of stinging arousal. He understood there was a re-balancing of dominance in Carl’s ferocity but he was excited by it - madly, especially by the short, sharp series of 'ahhs' whistling coarsely and ceaselessly through Carl's ripe mouth. God it sounded glorious, incredible, he thought, his head, his body, swimming with too much sensory input. 

Carl was blissfully free of intrusive thought – he was swept up in an animalistic, near-aggressive force that drove him towards pleasure and nothing else. The only inkling of wonderment that had drifted through the steaming fumes in his mind, was the idea that each time they’d made love had felt so vastly different to the time before it, and that excited him, all the different ways that could entice and excite and please one another. He knew distantly that the promise of more was part of that excitement, but that thought sunk like a peddle down into a growling moan as his hips pumped restlessly against the softness of Peter’s body beneath him.  
  
It was going to be fast, Peter could tell that from the off. Carl was already huffing with the sounds of closure within the minute. On top of that, he was going at brutal speed. After a few more swinging smashes of his hips he collapsed down and leaned into Peter completely, his face mashed into Peter's hair, and in turn Peter's face was knocked clear off his arm and smothered down into the pillow, Carl's moans quick against his neck.

Carl's hands came up again and hooked into Peter's shoulders, held onto him with white-knuckled force, and as his hips came down over and over - that soul shaking drill of dominance - all Peter could do was endure it, be taken completely. It was so consuming, Carl's lyrical groans reverberating through his chest against Peter's back, travelling into him in waves, the sensation of being fucked down into the mattress, the feeling of helplessness, of wanting to be helpless under a barrage of desire, knowing all the while it was only when Carl loved him that he was helpless.

An alarmingly loud whine of audible pleasure chattered through Peter’s teeth, and then another, his clenched jaw, his screw-shit eyes, his hair wet with sweat, the submersion of his expression, all of it so immensely erotic, so immensely arousing, and Carl couldn't will himself to ignore it, to push past it and last just a few minutes longer. He was done. 

Carl pulled out swiftly and hopped onto his knees, covers traveling up with him then sliding off down the sides of his thighs, and with a few pumps of his hand, eyes cast over the lines and curves of Peter's pale body stretched out before him, a short cry into the air, he came, onto that body, onto the back of Peter's thighs, across his arse and partway up the small of his back in a seemingly endless splash. 

Peter felt the warm pelt of come landing on his skin like a hot shock of fire, like that moment between realising you've burned yourself and the pain of injury arriving, and he couldn’t move. As Carl literally toppled over onto his back next to him, exhaling loudly and bunching up handfuls of blankets over his naked body, Peter lay there a bit longer, on his stomach, like a stunned animal, absorbing what had just happened, absorbing the reality of the sensation of wetness on his skin.  
  
He knew why Carl had done it, why he’d just marked him all over like a common beast, and he should have been angry about it, about what it meant, that reckless claim of ownership, that’s what that wetness across his skin meant. But outside of the context of the rest of their bond, outside of their bedroom, off of this old mattress, it meant something different. In this room, alone, it was just hot, stupid, primal desire, and Peter simply felt the other side of the coin of it all. He felt owned and he wanted to feel it. 

He had the thought that he'd like to reach back and touch it, run his fingers through the liquid trail of it, map it along his skin, but he couldn't, not with Carl watching. Carl glanced over at Peter then, and tossed a blanket over his bare behind and the evidence he'd left on it anyway.

That annoyed Peter, that blanket bullocks specifically, that literal pushing him and all this under the carpet. But Peter was still stupidly aroused and had yet to be tended to. He didn't want to wade through whatever emotional process Carl was no doubt embarking on to get there. He just flipped on his back, that leftover moisture sinking sticky and damp into the sheets beneath him, and decided to do it himself. He grabbed hold of his own clock, screwed shut his eyes and just went to work. Carl watched him, at first with a series of sideways glances, catching glimpses of his face, his open mouth, the crinkle of his closed eyes, and the outline of his rapid movements under the blankets. 

It took until Peter was emitting constant, unashamed moans that Carl gave in and turned to him, curled up against him, shoved his hand under the covers, and when Peter felt it and eagerly let go, Carl took over for him. With a girlish whimper, much softer than the grunting and mania of the past few minutes, Peter pressed his face to Carl's cheek, nudging against it with his nose until Carl took the hint and gave him his mouth. 

The kisses began as pecks and deepened until they were aggressively snogging, despite the dryness of their mouths, despite the sour taste of their spit, they kissed anyway, and kept kissing, until Carl's hand tightened that little bit harder around Peter's cock, sending a familiar hot spark igniting in his torso. Peter's throaty cry made him pull away from Carl's lips, his teeth smashing down together in a clinch, and Carl watched him, watched his face as he came, eyes closed and a grimace of pleasure so acute that it looked like pain. 

Carl held on a little longer, running his hand up and down Peter's cock as his arched back sunk again into the bedding, his come having missed dousing Carl's hand altogether and landing largely over his own stomach. When Peter's eyes cracked open Carl slipped away, retreating a solid distance across the bed. There they were, miles apart, no one saying anything, back to the same disconcerting spot. 

Peter turned to Carl, and Carl turned back, the very processes of looking at one another making Peter giggle just a touch, one side of his mouth pulling up a little like it does. Carl laughed too, a short snort leaving his nose. But Carl was laughing at the strangeness of it all, laughing through the tension like one might at a funeral. Peter was on the other hand gleeful, simply gleeful. Maybe it was the endorphins or the delightful shocks of the past morning, of last night, but he was truly happy.  
  
"Everything alright?" Carl asked him, fast and embarrassed, after a beat. “Lovely," Peter said with an air of thick, honeyed affection. He was glad that Carl had been the one to ask first, and more to the point he liked that they checked on one another afterwards, like they'd been in some minor accident and were feeling out if they had all their limbs intact. "Hmmm," Carl replied, lost for anything else that might be useful to say. 

Peter was plainly blissful – he crossed his arms and smiled. Deliberately, widely smiled. He'd had a good time. He was in a good mood. He felt like he'd been handed a wonderful gift two times over. He could still feel that very specific sting, that wetness where it shouldn't be, making it impossible to ignore that Carl had mowed through his body minutes before. 

He could still taste the staleness of Carl's mouth, still enjoy it, because it was Carl's mouth on his, hungry enough for love that even kissing in the morning smelling of old cigarettes and dehydration was a joy. He could still feel the shivers of arousal left behind like the fingerprints Carl had pressed into his skin here and there and all over. Carl had already given these things away, given them to Peter, and he couldn't have them back. Peter was bloody well holding onto them. Carl couldn't erase the pleasure he'd felt. That was his. 

Carl watched it happen, saw Peter make the decision to be happy despite his bristling distance. On one hand it infuriated him - the defiance. The smug smile plastered across his face. On the other hand he felt flattered, and loved, a warm glow at his core, a fire kindling in the distance, where his home was.  
  
The lull of love was short. He shook himself free of it. It can't happen again, he told himself. And then he told Peter.  
"We have to be done with this, you know," Carl said, but he said it a touch quietly, as if he himself wasn’t convinced. Peter wasn’t convinced either, but he had no intention of arguing the point. He’d just wait till he heard it again, and again, and again, and he knew he would. There was a sadness to that knowledge, but also a promise, and he held onto the latter. His lips pursed and he frowned.  
"I know," he replied simply. What else could he say.

But Peter turned and locked eyes with Carl, looked at him in a way that indicated he wanted Carl to back down, to let him have this.   
"You're all over me and you'd have to kill me to wipe the slate clean," Peter declared, firmly, and with vast and open drama. Carl’s mouth dropped open, but he shut it extremely fast. Instead, he forced himself to theatrically roll his eyes.  
"A shower will do it," he said curtly. Peter's expression at once became fiery.  
"You can go wash me off," Peter said, "I'm keeping you for days and days".  
Carl looked away and shook his head less with the irritation he tried to perform and more with the effort of covering the fact that he'd actually found the statements breathtakingly erotic and beautiful. It was the kind of thing great lovers said to one another, the kind that history favoured. Fated lovers, works of fiction. But he had to hide that, and post haste.  
"Appalling," was all he managed.  
He began to climb out of the covers, throwing the blankets aside but for the one he draped over his shoulders.  
For all his bravado Peter felt a surge of panic that it was ending just like that.  
"Carlos?" he called out as soon Carl's feet hit the floor, the old brown blanket round him like a shroud, his face partially hidden by his hair. Carl stopped and turned back.  
"Can you at least kiss me?" Peter asked.  
Carl hesitated, but leaned down and gave Peter a lingering peck through the curls that fell long and tangled across his lips.  
Then he turned away, walked to the bathroom, closed the door, and ran the shower.  
  
Peter slumped back down in the bedding, all of it crumpled and sideways, wet and undone. He felt undone, if he was honest. He lay there and listened to Carl symbolically and rather stupidly, Peter felt, trying to wash away the sin of his affection. He felt a little grief, a little resentment, but above that, bigger than that, he held onto the happiness. Something wonderful had happened, and like he said, he was keeping it. 

He'd gotten dressed and sat himself on the couch with his guitar by the time Carl emerged from the shower, wet and clean. Carl went into his room for a time but eventually came out and joined him. They spent a couple hours playing, writing, watched a movie, acted like everything was normal and the same. But every once in a while Peter would catch it in Carl's eyes, that distant fire, and he knew none of it, none of it at all, was over.


	11. Chapter 11

The normalcy of the day they spent together - the sense of nothing amiss but for memories stage-whispering off to the side of their consciousness, along with the occasional softly executed flirtation - meant that Peter expected no continuation of the morning’s transgressions into the following evening. 

So much so that when Carl announced he was going to bed in the still-dark early hours of that morning, the inherent hint that he might like Peter to join him was entirely missed. 

“Are you staying up a bit longer?” Carl asked from the very first inch of the hallway, through which he was making an exceptionally slow exit, stopping to shift his weight from foot to foot in a manner that should have signaled impatience. But while Peter had gotten increasingly canny at reading Carl’s expressions - even a raised eyebrow could hold within it a language known only between them - when it came to this uncharted portion of their relationship, the signals were presently too confused by turmoil and desire to yet be definitively clear. 

And so Peter, with his pre-existing assumption that he’d have to fight his way back into Carl’s affections after the battle cry of “we mustn’t do this again” was declared that morning, chose to enact a ceasefire to give Carl space and time to miss his affection. Carl needed neither space nor time, and had conveniently buried his earlier promise under panting want, sparked by the promise of adventure that’d been sitting beside him all day long, ready to be had. 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t computing. Peter, guitar in his lap and pen in his hand, looked up at Carl, standing bothered in that dim hall, and back down at the notebook in front of him, obliviously.  
“I might write a bit more,” Peter said, strumming the strings, noting down a few lyrics, scribbling them out again.  
“It’s almost light out,” Carl said hopefully.  
“Hmm,” Peter answered, without looking up at him. He just regarded the page with a pursed lip, and adding a few words above the scribble, humming to himself as he went. 

Carl sighed, feeling far more disappointed than irritated, as he expected he might have done. He didn’t know why he couldn’t just ask Peter to join him, but for whatever reason in the moment it seemed impossible to do so.  
“Goodnight then,” Carl said firmly, making a final offer only he knew he was brokering.  
Peter looked up, very awake and wide-eyed, and smiled warmly.  
“Goodnight Biggles!” he replied, smiling away.  
He looked very sweet, Carl thought, and awfully pretty just now. Carl sighed some more, finally tottering off down the hall and into his room, feeling slightly foolish. 

When Carl got into bed it occurred to him that he wasn’t immensely sleepy either. His brain was wired to be worn down by some energy-depleting activity before slumber was really an option. And so he found himself frustrated, tossing and turning in his bedding until the room was streaked with the blue light that washes through right before dawn arrives in earnest. 

Peter still wasn’t in bed, and Carl doubted he would be before mid-morning. Carl knew for sure as he’d left his door open. He’d wanted to hear Peter come in, not that it made any sense to do so, since he was even less likely to make a move then. 

Carl couldn’t say when he fell asleep but he must have, in that muddy morning dimness, because his next waking moment was forced into existence by Peter plonking himself full force onto the mattress and shaking him awake.  
“Carl! Carlos. Wake up,” Peter demanded, and Carl did, immediately, with an unpleasant hammering in his chest to go with the burning of his under-slept eyes.  
“What?” Carl whined, squinting now, in what was clearly hours-old daylight.  
“You have to come hear this song,” Peter stated, and it was not a question.  
Carl could have bristled but he knew if Peter has dared woken him - and Carl notoriously did not like being woken - it had to matter to him immensely, so he complied.  
“Why don’t you bring the guitar in here?” Carl asked.  
Peter’s eyes lit up as if it was a fantastic and previously unconsidered idea.  
He darted off to fetch it at once, along with his notepad, and was back in seconds, smacking back down upon the bed with a bounce. 

Peter looked at Carl then, longingly, and hesitated, suddenly a little performance shy. He was awfully excited about the song, and he wanted Carl to like it as much as he did. After all they’d started it together, and Peter had toiled with it the rest of the night and several hours into the day in order to perfect it for them both.  
“Go on,” Carl said with a sideways smile. He sensed the need for encouragement and offered it readily.  
Peter laid out the notebook on the bed and after a second, started up.  
Carl slouched back, arms folded under his head on the pillow, eyes closed, and listened, smile spreading wider every moment that he did.  
“Fuck,” he said, opening his eyes as the din of the last chord vibrated to a stop.  
“It’s good isn’t it?” Peter asked excitedly.  
“Very good, Pigman. Very good,” Carl answered, and reached up to give his hair a quick scruff.  
“I’ll fiddle with a few things when I wake up…” Carl started, but Peter interjected.  
“You won’t touch nothin’,” he insisted. “It’s perfect”.  
Carl rolled his eyes. “Alright then, it’s perfect,” he said sarcastically, but then paused before he added, “It really is”.  
He was genuinely very impressed, and very proud.  
Peter grinned, properly, gnashers on display and all.  
Carl emitted a very soft laugh, then an involuntary yawn that made his eyes water.  
“I’m going back to sleep,” he said, and arranged himself to do exactly that, tucking himself in and shutting his eyes. 

Peter placed his guitar on the ground, sat and looked at Carl for a few moments, feeling something pulling at him, a want without an anchor. It was there all the time, but it was never more tangible than when they created something together. Even if Carl had slept through half the process.  
Carl cracked an eye open. Peter smiled.  
Maybe it was the adrenaline or the mere proximity but Peter found himself very easily asking: “Do you want to come sleep in my bed?”  
Carl’s other eye popped open and he raised his eyebrows.  
“Just sleep,” Peter clarified, in case he’d taken a step too far. Besides that was genuinely all he was offering. He was exhausted, it was time for bed, but the notion that he could curl up with Carl pressed against him was a fragrantly beautiful concept, a garden of loveliness, to just lay in his arms, vanquish the weight of his toil in the place it belonged. 

Carl’s mind was perhaps at a less innocent juncture, but he’d waited all night for the opportunity and it had presented itself with uncanny ease, such ease that he was reminded that every difficulty they’d faced building this strange, intimate thing between them had been barricaded only by their own mental machinations. It was all much easier and simultaneously infinitely harder than it seemed. 

Trying not to sound so eager, nor give away his motivation in the matter, Carl mumbled, “Yeah alright” and clambered out of his bed, then directly into Peter’s, without pause. Peter followed him, stopping to strip down to his shirt and underwear, before he climbed in beside Carl’s warm, folded form. 

It took a minute of slightly awkward shuffling before they arranged themselves into a cuddle. Peter didn’t want to make it seem like he was doing something he wasn’t by inching closer and offering Carl his back to cling onto, so he sharply rather than slowly manoeuvred himself into that position - near as he could get while still leaving Carl the final inches between them to broach. Carl eagerly took the hint and latched onto him, curling around the body he’d watched to touch all day. 

They were both too tired to do anything and that was quickly and mutually understood. Their bodies were heavy, muscles waning, their breathing already laboured with incoming slumber. But it was blissful, Peter thought, the waves of Carl’s breath against his neck, the weight of Carl’s arm locked protectively around his waist, the tips of Carl’s fingers tucked under the soft, round edge of his belly. It was so nice, and that was the last thought Peter has before he fell away. 

It took Carl a few minutes more to follow him. He lay in the heat rising from their locked bodies, being consumed by it, and had to extinguish the small flip of excitement that sat it his belly, the expectation of what waking in this bed together would bring in mere hours, before he could settle his mind enough to sleep. 

Peter woke a little after lunchtime, Carl unconscious next to him, and despite having been down only a handful of hours, couldn’t get his eyes to stay closed again. He didn’t want to wake Carl, but he didn’t want to lay motionless beside him waiting either. Those first-light lustful inclinations were on his mind, but subdued by the peace of Carl’s soft, faraway slumber, the whistle of thin air through his nose. He seemed peaceful, and Peter felt it best to let sleeping dogs lie.

He climbed out of bed very carefully – he wasn’t as immensely good at stealth exists as Carl was, through earlier weeks of practice, which now, in retrospect, seemed fairly unnecessary. All of Carl’s wakeful escapes had in no way nudged the trajectory of where they ended up. It took Peter a lot longer than it might have done Carl, though, inching along out of the bedding, pausing at every unusual snort of breath, just like in the movies.

He eventually freed himself and just as slowly crept into Carl’s room to retrieve the last ten pounds Carl had hidden where he thought Peter wouldn’t find it – which, of course he easily did. Money liberated, random items of Carl’s clothing dragged over his bedraggled form, Peter snuck across the house and out the door, closing it in slow motion to avoid even the faintest slam, and skipped off fetch them some breakfast, and booze, if he could manage both.

He’d done it all so quietly mostly because he wanted it to be a surprise. He wanted to do something nice for Carl, something to show some gratitude, though there was no occasion to, he just wanted to. With any luck Carl wouldn’t wake up alone and meet him at the door for a mood-dampening inquisition.

Carl didn’t in fact wake up until there was a distinct cacophony arising from the kitchen in the form of Peter breaking a mug, followed by the discordant scrape of pottery shards being scratched off the floor with a magazine standing in as a dustpan. Peter had gone on a valiant mission into the cupboards to discover if they owned any wine glasses – they apparently did not – and succeeded only in breaking the last clean drinking vessel left in the kitchen.

The next sound was the kettle whistling, the sink running – as Carl roused himself out of a groggy doze. In the midst of that gradual unwinding, Peter appeared, smiling in an extremely self-satisfied way, carrying a plate with a pair of bagels sliding around on it in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other. Carl sat up instantly, curiously, and was handed the goods with a nod before Peter vanished again. He was back with a cup of tea in each paw, which he precariously set down on the bedside table.

Carl beamed at him, nose wrinkled in confused amusement.  
“Did you go out for this?” he asked, though obviously he had.  
Peter reached for a bagel, nodding, and tore off a chunk, chugging his tea as he chewed.  
Carl stared, bedazzled for moment, then, very obviously charmed, started with the uncorked wine, tipping the bottle to his lips and glugging a significant portion before he put it down beside the tea.  
“Line your stomach first,” Peter cautioned. “It’s the cheap stuff”.  
“I know,” Carl said, picking up his bagel, but he seemed entirely delighted.  
He was. Peter had brought him breakfast! It was about the sweetest thing he could recall Peter doing for him, though there’d been all sorts of lovely things he’d done, this felt particularly domestic, and that made it comforting.

They made quick work of their makeshift meal, taking turns chugging the wine until they were both pleasingly tipsy.  
Carl snatched the bottle to sup the last dregs, and Peter frowned.  
“I wanted some for my bath,”  
Peter complained.  
“There’s some gin stashed in the kitchen,” Carl said with a wink, then added, “but half of it is mine so don’t inhale it’.  
Carl paused, Peter’s comment sinking in.  
“You’re having a bath?” he asked.  
“Mmm hmm,” Peter answered, lighting a cigarette.  
“What happened to ‘days and days?’” Carl said with a wry smile, recalling Peter’s declaration the day prior that he’d refuse to bathe Carl’s various… dribbles off his body.  
Peter’s face erupted into coy amusement.  
“I’m a bit sticky,” he answered with a smoky exhale, on the verge of a giggle.  
Carl did giggle, a closed-mouthed little rattle that turned up the corners of his mouth.  
It was sweet, this exchange, Peter thought, so sweet that, along with the wine making his belly warm and his head light, he felt the courage to embrace his whims.  
“Will you come and read to me?” Peter asked. He meant in the bath, and Carl understood.  
Carl raised his eyebrows, and dropped them again. He supposed he could, and he was feeling fairly warm and tipsy himself.  
“What shall I read?” Carl asked softly.  
Peter’s eyes lit up. He wasn’t expecting Carl to say yes, if he was honest.  
“You pick, whatever you like,” Peter offered.  
“Some poetry, I think!” Carl said.  
He took the remainder of the cigarette from Peter’s mouth, popped it in his own, and went off immediately to find something on the bookshelf in the living room. Peter was delighted, and a little surprised. He sat there for a moment, smiling away to himself, before he figured he should go run his bath.

Carl heard the taps turn and the water start up as he seriously considered the spines of the various volumes they’d accumulated, separately and together, that now sat wedged on top of one another in this place they called a home.  
He picked a sombre collection of war poetry – it seemed fitting for reading to a fellow in the bath. Almost like if they were sailors aboard a ship, sharing a soothing recitation while bathing in wooden tubs below deck. Yes, that was it.

He flipped through the musty pages, picked a section to start with and closed his slender index finger in the spot to keep it. He waited like that, book in curled hand, for the water to switch off, giving Peter the privacy to climb in the tub without his prying eyes darting around the room. Not that Peter was likely to need or demand privacy, in fairness. It was really more for his own benefit. 

He hovered by the books a bit longer, until Peter was obviously calling attention to his readiness by audibly splashing about. This lasted for the mere seconds it took for Carl to arrive at the bathroom door, at which point Peter was already in the process of howling out, “Caaaarl!”  
“No need to bellow,” Carl said, appearing in the doorway.  
Peter smiled shyly. “Sorry,” he replied softly, which resulted in an awkward lull as Carl continued standing in the doorframe while Peter stared at him, that same hopeful smile just suspended, until he could make himself speak.  
“Come sit,” Peter said after a moment, tapping the edge of the tub.  
“Hmm, think this is safer. And less wet,” Carl replied, popping down the toilet seat to sit on top of that instead.  
Not very romantic, Peter thought, but still, he’d take it.  
“What have you got?” Peter asked, nodding towards the book.  
Carl covered the spine with his hand.  
“Surprise,” he answered, “Close your eyes”.  
Peter eyed him suspiciously, and Carl rolled his eyes own in response.  
“Or don’t,” he said.  
With delighted smirk, Peter shifted down in the water and shut his eyes as instructed. 

Carl glanced at him then, all of him, the awareness of his long, naked body, that he’d been deliberately diverting his attention away from, suspended in the shallows of colliding tides, momentarily making his breath catch. This was some sort of progression, some sort of moment, but the impact was as yet unclear. Carl looked down at his book, flipped open the page he’d been holding, and began. 

As soon as he was reading, everything became easier. Carl knew very well how to entertain Peter, how to deliver the lines with comedy, gravity and prettiness, and as he worked though the stanzas and then the page and onto the next, he found himself glancing at Peter every few beats, just to see how pleased he looked, how beautifully he smiled, the way his expressions changed and came alive as he followed along. 

It felt sinfully indulgent, being read to this way. And although Peter also felt the sort of alertness and edginess that’s impossible to circumvent when laying so exposed in the company of someone you’ve recently fallen in love with, he found himself somewhat able to relax. 

After twenty of so minutes of recitation, Peter reached over the edge of the tub, fat water droplets worming down his arms, to retrieve the cigarettes he’d left on the tiles. Carl was distracted by the shift in the atmosphere, and more so but Peter’s damp hand pawing open the easily destroyed box of their last few fags.  
“Give me those, you’ll get them all wet,” he said with the same annoyance he’d have displayed in literally any circumstances, the reality of the situation slinking away in that instant. Peter smiled, amused by his protectiveness, and let Carl snatch the box.  
Carl lit a cigarette and reached out his arm to return it, but Peter lifted his wet hands up from underneath the waterline in surrender to indicate he’d prefer it deposited directly in his mouth.  
To do that, Carl had to get up, hover the entire naked sight of him in the water, and when he met Peter’s eyes, there was a mischievous glint in them.  
He winked, and collected the lit cigarette between his teeth.  
Carl understood that Peter was very much enjoying the combination of squirminess and contained excitement their proximity, in this exposing context, was inciting, but he didn’t want to make it obvious he was engaging in it, too, though he very much was.  
Carl returned quickly to his seat, lit himself a cigarette, too, and flipped the pages to look for something else to start on.  
He was interrupted by Peter, smoke billowing from his maw, fussing as he drained some water out of the tub and hoisted the tap to full blast to top it up with a fresh batch of the hot stuff.  
Task complete, Peter sunk back into the water and plucked his cigarette from his lips, entirely soaking it in the process.  
“I told you,” Carl said, an eyebrow raised, a cheeky smile twisted up into his cheek.  
“That was an accident!” Peter protested.  
He immediately reached his hand out to take the rest of Carl’s ciggie from him as a replacement, and Carl acquiesced – up he was again to deliver a half-smoked morsel into Peter’s mouth.  
As Carl’s hand hovered by his lips, Peter dodged it – he looked at Carl, very pointedly, instead.  
“Do you want to get in?” Peter asked gently, his voice hopeful but unsure.  
He’d been thinking it the whole time, and he wasn’t sure if thinking it over and over was going to result in losing the nerve to ask, or if he would eventually just pop like a balloon and blurt it. Luckily it was the latter.  
Carl smirked. Not in a mean way, Peter read, but certainly in surprise.  
“It’s nice and warm,” Peter said even more softly, a little pleadingly, in a way that could only be read as shyness.  
Peter was making an offering that, considering his vulnerable position, could make for a crushing rejection.  
Carl knew that, and it made it harder to say no. Not that he necessarily wanted to say no. It had crossed his mind, as well, in an abstract way.  
But now there was a gentle invitation, and there was Peter staring up at him puppy-dog eyed and pouting, the combination of which made the offer impossible to decline.

He popped his still-burning cigarette butt in the sink and regarded Peter fondly. It was easier to not give an answer and just get undressed, Carl figured. When he stood and stripped off his shirt, Peter smiled so unashamedly widely and watched so keenly that when he got to unzipping his jeans, Carl hesitated.  
“Can you not stare?” he said with an embarrassed sort of irritation.  
Peter blinked in mock offence and slid down into the water, staring deliberately at the ceiling while Carl kicked off the last of his clothing.  
Getting in the water fast was imperative – Carl did not want to hover naked in the cold bathroom, or be tripping over Peter in the tub, and other such horrors.

As soon as one foot was in the water, planted between Peter’s skinny calves, Peter curled up to give Carl room. Carl was buried waist deep under the resulting wave in a split second, his knees up to his chest and looking altogether under attack.  
Peter smiled at him, as welcoming as possible, while Carl tried to wriggle into a comfortable position in the fraction of space Peter’s enormously long body had left between himself and the edge of the bath, which was spikily guarded by the taps, both of which were dripping hot and cold droplets down his back.  
The struggle went on for a few seconds before Peter, very bemused, suggested Carl spin around.  
“Come here,” he said, twirling his finger round in the air.  
Carl wondered if the potentially humiliating effort of physically turning around in the bath would be worth the increased comfort, seeing as it would place him between Peter’s thighs in a manner that could only be construed as a bath cuddle.  
Ah well, fuck, he didn’t really have a choice anyway. Carl just wanted to settle into a position he could calm his nerves in.  
He popped up, slender arms with their lean muscles straining on the edge of the tub, spun round surprisingly deftly and demurely, and there he was, nestled against Peter’s chest.  
Peter made absolutely no secret of the nature of the embrace he wanted – he leaned back against the edge of the tub, collected Carl in his slippery arms and pressed him down into his bosom with smug delight that was evident to Carl even without seeing his face.

It was warm, it was comfortable, and after a few moments of adjusting to the exposure of the act – and wondering how exactly, this had happened – Carl found himself feeling increasingly serene, albeit in very gradual increments.  
“Fuck, forgot about your gin,” Peter said after a second, noticing that his wine buzz had mostly worn off.  
“Can have it later,” Carl replied, though hearing his own voice echo off the bathroom walls, he realised he sounded a little – not tense, exactly, but slightly nervous.  
Peter heard it as well, and he didn’t want Carl feeling uneasy. This was supposed to be nice, and bonding, and romantic.  
They could have done with Carl’s secret gin to help that process along, but smoking some more would be nice and distracting in its place, Peter thought.  
He had to momentarily dislodge Carl to yet again reach for the ciggies, which he did without really wetting them at all, almost as if Carl’s expectation of calamity was what willed it into existence, and on his own, Peter was nowhere near as hapless as Carl made him out to be. At least that was Peter’s present theory.

He lit one, to share between them, feeling as though that would create a nice bit of synergy. Carl took it eagerly, and didn’t return it - at which point Peter jostled over the edge of the tub once more to grab the book.  
He wiped his fingertips in Carl’s still-dry hair – an act which made Carl laugh softly - and flipped pages over his head.  
“Should I read you something?” Peter asked.  
“Go on,” Carl replied, and reflexively, he slunk down, head on Peter’s chest, eyes closed, cigarette travelling between his lips and where he hand rested on the edge of tub.  
Peter lost concentration, forgot the book, momentarily, just looking down at him, at his full lips pressing down on the filter, at his aristocratic hand dancing past, trail of smoke from between two long fingers, back to the face, lashes fanned above flushed cheeks, the softly elevating chest, the edge of the water lapping above his belly, a dip into secretive darkness, nudity obscured into a puzzle by rippled water, islands of knees and calves emerging, and at the other end, his slender feet crossed under the taps, drips of water skidding along them.  
Peter swallowed, very hard, as something uncontrollable began to manifest and spin, a horribly painful sort of excitement, a longing that was given too present an opportunity.  
“Did you find something?” Carl asked, a little shaken by the lull, because he’d sensed it. He’d sensed Peter’s investigative glare and he’d sensed the rising, crackling energy that came with it.  
Peter was glad of the interruption, and focused his eyes on whatever was on the page he’d already opened.  
“Yeah yeah, this one…” he said, and nicked Carl’s cigarette from his hand as means of distraction, finishing it in a performative fashion while reciting a few pages worth of poetry.  
As he did, he felt Carl relax, felt him sink further down, the ends of his hair now floating beneath the water, a lopsided, sleepy smile on his face.  
There was something calming about the reading and Carl felt pleased to experience what Peter had – just the sensation of floating and the methodical rhythm of inspiring words to soothe and enlighten, to spin the mind off to a rare, hypnotic place.  
Peter glanced at Carl between every few lines, the way Carl had at him, watched his small smiles and looks of concentration, and a swell of love filled his chest, right against where Carl now lay, creating an intoxicating awareness of the weight anchored against him - the acute realisation of who it belonged to, and how shocking it seemed to have somehow won it.

When he finished the last few lines of the page, Peter closed the book, and tossed it to safety. Hands now free, he let his fingers trail across Carl’s scalp, through strands of hair, and he watched Carl again smile, mindlessly and warmly, at the pleasure of it.  
“Shall I wash your hair?” Peter asked, in that same barely-there softness that had enticed Carl into the bath in the first place.  
Carl opened his eyes with a half-serious wince.  
“Is it that dirty?” he asked, along with a thin laugh.  
“No,” Peter answered gently. “Just thought it would be nice”.

A surge of something very familiar, through his chest into his throat, travelled up Carl’s body and his heart sped up, but in the loveliest way. The promise of most childlike pleasure, of most tender and relaxing kindness was being offered and he had no will whatsoever to turn it down.  
“Yeah alright,” Carl said casually, but the distantly honeyed quality that had slipped into his tone rang loudly in Peter’s ears. He knew he was going to do something that would please Carl, and in having the bravery, the desire to offer it, he felt a sense of most exquisite power.

He began tenderly gathering up each of the loose strands of Carl’s hair and scooping palmfuls of warm water carefully through them. It crossed Carl’s mind he could just dunk his head and make it easy, but he was already mesmerised by the flow of Peter’s toil, the methodical movements of his fingers along his scalp, the measured flow of water propelled with them. It took time, and it was a labour of love.  
The room was quiet, but for the tinkling of splashes, the concentrated breathing from Peter above him. It was an incubatory atmosphere, and Carl felt heavy, and sleepy, and still.  
Eventually it was time for actual shampoo, and Peter retrieved it from the corner of the tub behind him, working it as carefully into Carl’s hair as he had the water, spending a long, long time just massaging it through, far longer than was needed for the task, his huge thumbs pressing along Carl’s temples, flowing up again to the crown of his head, the rest of his fingers following, stopping to untangle occasionally interlocked strands with unfathomable care.  
The process of rinsing out the suds was done with equal consideration, one hand resting along Carl’s forehead to keep soap out of his eyes as the other splashed the strands clean.

Carl was so relaxed, so soothed, at that stage, that he hadn’t noticed the water cool considerably.  
“Can you let a little hot water in?” he heard Peter ask him quietly, as if from very far away, at pains not to break the dreamlike atmosphere.  
Carl blinked his eyes open, the light a momentary shock, and managed to manoeuvre the tap both on and off with his foot, a process Peter watched with excessive wonder. Everything Carl did was lately immensely bewitching to him, and this simple feat no less so.

The temperature regained, and the tub now rather over full, Peter went back to his careful hair washing, working through a handful of conditioner, sliding it across Carl’s scalp, all ten fingers languidly rotating at once, a process which Carl found so enjoyable as to involuntarily emit a sigh.  
Peter smiled down at him, at his closed eyes and blissful expression, and got on with untangling each left-over knot between his fingers.  
Carl felt ever so slightly bereaved when Peter returned to rinsing away the last of the filmy product from his hair.  
He rung the locks out in his fists and quite spontaneously, gave Carl a kiss on the forehead to signal that he’d finished.  
Carl opened his eyes and smiled, so invitingly, and the process of their gaze meeting felt dazzlingly intimate, in a new way, in a way that even the intense but often selfish pleasure of lovemaking didn’t always conjure.

Peter reluctantly broke that eye contact to yet again jostle for the safety of the cigarettes, figuring it would mark a natural end to their time in the now lukewarm water.  
He lit them one to share, and they dutifully handed it back and forth, both finding themselves at ease, quietly languishing in the little bit of magic they’d created.  
“Getting cold,” Carl complained as he passed the last of the cigarette back to Peter to finish. “Might hop out,” he added.  
“Mmm hmm,” Peter mumbled, and he felt sad it was over, but fairly delighted with how beautifully it had gone.

He gave Carl the necessary privacy to climb out without being ogled, giving the ceiling another quick peruse while Carl stepped over the edge and wrapped himself in one towel, while mopping himself with another.  
That Peter watched, just for a few moments, the shiny wetness on Carl’s chest being swiped way with soft towelling propelled under a handsome hand.  
He took the opportunity of Carl’s distraction to run some soap over his body, a little through his hair, and submerged himself under the water.  
Carl turned, roused by the splashing, saw those closed eyes and pursed lips buried in a blur, the long body bobbing upwards, momentarily concealed by nothing at all but water running off his thighs, his torso, his tummy. He looked longer than it was safe to, turning a split second before Peter re-emerged. Peter sat up, wiping water from his face with his hands and, Carl, who’d made himself a tad flustered, busied himself with fetching Peter the spare, albeit now damp, towel, placing it in his readily outstretched hands.

Peter was far less discreet than Carl was - he climbed out of the bath holding the towel to his face rather than attempting to preserve his dignity whatsoever, then stood quite openly towelling down his body beside Carl, naked and wet and fairly unbothered.  
Carl opted to brush his teeth to take the attention off the goings on beside him, which were still fairly visible in the cabinet mirror. He could have left the room, but he felt compelled not to. It seemed as if whatever was happening, they were very much in it together, and it would be a betrayal which would invite more humiliation than at all necessary if he up and abandoned Peter nude on the tiles.  
Peter joined Carl at the sink, finally tying the towel around his waist and giving his own teeth a cursory scrub, before inspecting them to judge the result.  
Carl laughed at him, for no reason, just because it all seemed so homely.  
“What?” Peter asked shyly, with a coy smile.  
Carl shook his head to mean nothing, and gave Peter’s wet hair a quick ruffle.

They left the bathroom in single file, shuffled into Peter’s bedroom and found themselves standing opposite one another in their towels – Carl at the foot of the bed, Peter alongside it, unclear as to what was meant to happen now.  
There was a short silence, a brief near-naked standoff, that felt incredibly long.  
“Do you want to go out later?” Carl asked Peter then, though mostly to fill the air with something, anything.  
Peter’s face visibly fell.  
“Just us,” Carl clarified, reading his frown.  
“Just us?” Peter repeated, making it clear that was the only circumstances under which he’d accept venturing into the night. Out-out, with friends, would inevitably separate them, or cause some sort of drama, or a fight. It just wouldn’t do.  
“Just us,” Carl repeated. “Old fashioned Biggles and Bilo adventure”.  
Peter perked up.  
“Okay then,” he said. “Why later?”  
“Got to go to work,” Carl answered.  
“No! You absolutely cannot,” Peter yelped, in instantaneous, reeling horror.  
Carl’s shoulders fell in a wave of rapid exhaustion.  
“I have to, come on,” he began weakly.  
“You don’t have to,” Peter said firmly.  
“I’m going,” Carl replied just as firmly, feeling very silly having the beginnings of an argument while they were standing in the middle of an airy room in nothing but their towels.

Peter felt a fair bit defeated. In his heart he had a whole afternoon and evening planned of… well he wasn’t sure, but something delicious.  
“When do you have to go?” Peter asked, clearly sulking.  
“About five,” Carl replied.  
“That’s an hour!” Peter whined.  
“It’s two hours,” Carl said, with an expression that bordered on amusement. Time wasn’t Peter’s forte.  
Carl really wanted to go and get dressed, this whole scene was increasingly awkward and he needed it swiftly dispensed with.  
Peter however felt he’d very much missed out on what should have naturally followed on from breakfast in bed and bathing – more romance, more warmth, more of that mesmerising lull that he was moments ago lost in. Even though Carl was taking him out later, on a promised adventure, he couldn’t bear the tedious delay. He wanted it now. 

Carl had said two hours. They had time for, if not romance, then certainly a chance to extinguish the growing arousal that teased under the surface of all that delicate interaction. But making a move at this moment required a boldness Peter hadn’t yet exhibited. He felt empowered by the bath they’ve shared, but he couldn’t be sure what kind of closeness that even implied. It wasn’t - not - sexual, though it was certainly sensual. Did he have a right to now openly ask Carl if he wanted to have a quick shag before he wandered off to work? Last time he’d tried anything like it Carl had vanished into the ether for days. But that was before... everything. Surely now, he could ask. 

Seconds later he made up his mind. This was stupid. They weren’t bathing together because they felt like a spot of naked water poetry. All of it was part of the same thing - of being close, of being together, of touching and caressing and eroticism. And Peter was fairly sure, logically, that if Carl was willing to get in a bath with him he was most certainly willing to get in bed with him after it. Why that was such a matter of confusion was bizarre in the first place, but he blamed Carl for that, for always muddying the water with his impotent proclamations of finality. 

Carl moved just a fraction towards making an exit and Peter felt the moment slipping away. He tried to make himself say something, do something, but he couldn’t. Another lost second, Carl vanished into his own room, and Peter sat on the bed in surrender. He wearily stripped off the wet towel and got under the covers, naked, cold and consumed by a proper sulk. He briefly imagined the things he could have done. He could have walked over to Carl, slid that flimsy towel off his waist and kissed him in a manner so intoxicating that all the wonderment of the past few hours would bloom so naturally, and they’d fall in bed, into each other’s arms, and what would have followed - bliss, bliss, bliss. But no. Here he was damp in every way and on the verge of self-pitying tears.

He was still in that state when Carl resurfaced some forty minutes later, in his work uniform, and decided he’d leave for the theatre early, feeling very much pressed under the strange, tense atmosphere he felt emanating from Peter’s room. Carl was not at all shocked to find Peter curled up in bed, pouting, though he wasn’t sure he knew what the matter was, other than he was leaving and Peter didn’t want him to.

It was evident to Peter that Carl was fleeing even sooner than planned to escape his sulking, but Peter didn’t bother to complain out loud about it. He wasn’t really angry at Carl anyway, he was just disappointed in himself, for lacking the boldness, the bravery, for failing to embrace his own philosophies of freedom and risk. Failing to take such a simple chance to continue buckling boundaries, crashing through them so gleefully, even for an hour, if he couldn’t all through all the night. 

Carl approached the bed carefully.  
“You be dressed and ready when I come home, alright Pigman?” he said brightly, trying to lift the mood.  
Peter unburied half his face from the duvet.  
“You don’t want me to meet you somewhere?” he asked miserably.  
“No, I’ll come home and collect you. What I want to show you is nearby,” Carl said.  
“What is it?” Peter asked, shuffling up from the covers a tad.  
“Won’t be a surprise if I tell ya,” Carl responded with a wink.  
Peter found himself smiling, just a bit. Maybe there was still some magic left in the day after all.  
“What time are you coming back?” Peter asked, now somewhat eagerly.  
“About eleven,” Carl answered. “Don’t dilly-dally!” he added.  
Peter came alive, sat up in bed, and shiny wonderment awoke in his eyes.  
“I won’t,” he promised sweetly.  
“Have you nicked my tenner?” was the next thing Carl said.  
“No!” Peter shot back, though of course he had.  
He added helpfully: “There’s a pound fifty in my pocket if you want it”.  
Peter didn’t explain that was his change from breakfast - out of Carl’s ten.  
Carl clicked his tongue dubiously and rustled around in the pile of clothing on the floor, finding the coins in Peter’s pockets before he went back into his room and managed to put together another a couple pounds for his train.  
“Right I’m off,” Carl announced.  
“Farewell Carlos,” Peter said, his mood largely recovered.

Carl stopped at the door and looked at Peter, nestled in his bed, holding court, and felt awash with conflicting emotions.  
It had been a strange day, and he didn't know how to leave the flat without feeling oddly bereft. He felt a pull, and found himself following it to Peter’s bedside.  
Peter looked up at him, surprised, an anticipatory look crossing his face.  
Carl leaned down, and gave Peter a long, warm, kiss on the forehead, so tender as to cause Peter’s eyes to fall closed.  
Carl rose, hesitated, looking for closure, then found it - he ruffled Peter’s hair as a means of farewell.  
“See you later,” Carl said, his friendly tone unmatched by the whirlpool of emotional oddity banging around in his chest like a loose penny in a washing machine.  
Peter smiled back, in an understanding way, and nodded.  
They were both feeling it, Peter figured, that off kilter desire, that exposing intimacy with unclear directions forward. And it comforted him, somewhat, to know at least they were in it together.

When Carl left for work, Peter opted to sleep through the evening – he hadn’t gotten many hours the night before, and was moody as a result. A nice kip, he figured, would sort him out and ready him for whatever adventure Carl had planned for them.

He was up, dressed and ready shortly before 11pm – suit, bowler hat and cane to boot, property attired for the ensuing jaunt through the darkness to the dawn. He’d also spent significant time finding where Carl had hidden the secret gin – back of the cutlery drawer, he discovered 30 minutes into the search – and had sat himself down on the sofa, helping himself to a large cupful, by the time it was a quarter past eleven.

Carl was late, and though he was often late, Peter felt immensely anxious waiting for him as each minute ticked by the anointed hour.  
It was a further twenty minutes before he heard Carl race up the stairs and cast himself through the front door at speed.  
“You’re late!” Peter complained immediately, which was a bad start.  
Carl made a displeased face, but it quickly vanished, an expression that was cheeky and secretive taking its place.  
As Carl approached him, Peter noticed he had one arm hidden behind his back.  
“What have you got?” Peter asked, eyes widening happily. Magic, still in play. He knew it. He sensed it.  
Carl tilted his head and shot him a wry smile.  
The hand emerged - in it, a bunch of twisted, worse-for-wear roses, tied together with an old bowtie.  
Peter smiled, stupidly sweetly.  
“Are those for me?” he asked, with all the blushing disbelief of debutante.  
Carl shrugged. “Of course,” he replied. Carl inspected the petals with his fingers.  
“Had to sweep them off the stage and it seemed a waste to bin them. Battered and bruised and yet outliving their moment of glory to see another day. I thought you’d appreciate the sentiment,” he explained, just a hint of shyness to the recitation, which he’d most definitely rehearsed on the train home.  
Peter was just, beaming uncontrollably, as he took the flowers carefully, even a mite shakily, from Carl’s hands.  
“Whose bowtie is this?” Peter asked, carefully touching the makeshift ribbon.  
“Dunno,” Carl responded. “Found it backstage”.  
“I’ll have that,” Peter declared, pleased, and unknotted it. He lay the flowers down immensely gently on the coffee table, as if putting them to bed, and slung the bowtie around his neck.  
“This any good?” he asked, gazing at Carl with such fondness.  
Carl smiled, enormously bemused.  
“Here, let me tie it for you,” he said, and sat himself beside Peter on the sofa.  
A little fiddling, and he had it properly done up.  
“There,” Carl said, tugging the corners, “Lovely”.  
Their eyes met then, and Peter’s were awash with adoration – it shone from him, so loudly that Carl felt suddenly overwhelmed. He’d meant to elicit affection, of course, he’d been caught up in the elation of the day just as Peter was, but there was more love being showered over him, just in those mammoth, wanting brown eyes, than he knew what to do with. Carl swallowed. He laughed very slightly. Peter just stared, that same blinding way.

Peter was working up the courage to collect Carl’s darling little face in his hands and kiss him. There was no other feasible response. He didn’t know if a kiss was wanted, but it was warranted, and the way Carl appeared trapped in the headlights of his glare told him that this was the moment.

Peter moved closer, until their foreheads met. Their eyes closed simultaneously, noses pressed together, and Peter heard Carl breathe deeply, felt the sweet, humid breeze of it on his lips.  
The kiss that came next happened on its own, a potent force. Their mouths pressed together at the same time, the first taste of one another’s tongues and spit, that molten warmth of connectivity, and a sound came from Carl’s throat, a short gasp of relief, and longing.

Peter heard it, was thrilled by it, and he grabbed the back of Carl’s head, a fistful of hair, the same hair he’d washed that afternoon, slick in between his fingers. He pulled Carl harder into that kiss, held his face delicately in his palms, thumbs caressing his cheekbones, and they drifted, slowly downwards, mouths entwined, sinking down into the sofa, Carl’s body halfway across Peter’s body, Carl’s chest pressing upon Peter’s chest, their hearts pounding through to one another in unison. 

It went on that way for several minutes, the rhythmic kisses, murmurs of pleasure from them both, before Carl lifted his face out of Peter’s cradling hands, pulled away from his lips, away from a kiss that stayed suspended in the air for seconds after he’d left it, and peered at Peter curiously. Peter opened his eyes, slowly, savouring the last of that kiss, unsure if there would be another. He let himself sigh out that feeling, then reached up and pushed away a curl of hair that had fallen in front of Carl’s bright, troubled eyes. 

Carl again laughed very slightly, just a wisp of a laugh through his nose, but no one spoke. No one moved, either. There was a gravity to the melding of their bodies, an inescapable magnetism, and now that they’d managed to come together this way after the hours and hours of skating past it, dodging it in hallways, neither of them wanted to part, not yet. 

A draft floated through the room and there was the faint scent of roses, Peter noticed, and the wonderful recollection of receiving them just minutes ago charmed him, cheered him, and gave him the courage to say out loud what he was thinking.  
“I’ve wanted to kiss you all day,” he said, though the galvanised energy it took to break the silence with that bold a confession was lost midway through the sentence, and he hated how thin and squeaky he sounded saying it.  
Carl laughed again, just as slightly as each time before, but he dropped his head down, lay it again against Peter’s forehead, and nuzzled his nose. 

Carl felt quite frozen in place. He still didn’t want to move, but he also wasn’t sure he could do what he really wanted to do next. No, he couldn’t, he decided, no matter how hypnotic it felt, how alluring a possibility. He had to get up, get dressed, go out, have a drink, and just, get on with their normal lives. He willed himself up, but the second Peter felt him scrambling, he grabbed Carl’s arms.  
“Stay,” Peter said, and he sounded so – not wanting, exactly, not in a pleading, whiny way, but sad, awfully sad, like he was losing something extraordinary that’d been till then laying safe in his grip. It made Carl pause, and the pause was surrender, and he knew it. Why fight, he asked himself. Why even bother. He didn’t want to anyway, not really. And somehow, it felt, just for now, easier not to.  
Carl came down, back into the kiss, and Peter seized it so readily, consumed his lips with such a lovely, open groan of obvious pleasure, that Carl felt himself letting go, a feeling like falling, a feeling he recognised, and he let it take him over, let the erotic charge of that sound, that kiss, snake up his spine and ignite. 

He climbed over Peter’s body properly, lowered himself down upon him – and then Peter felt it, the shocking hardness of Carl’s cock pressing into Peter’s own, and the suddenness of it was pure electricity. Because he’d had to wait, and waiting made it feel impossible. Until it wasn’t. 

At once, Peter’s hand fought its way between them, just to touch that hardness, prove it real, and he rolled his hand against it, a moan coming from Carl’s throat as he did. Carl’s hand followed, pawing in turn at Peter’s crotch, scraping along it, then both his hands, opening the latch on Peter’s belt, his mouth mashing down into Peter’s so hard, like he was being consumed.

Everything else disappeared, Carl couldn’t hold onto any coherent thoughts, much the way thoughts scramble and float before sleep, so too did they now, but the force dragging him under was desire, stunning desire, a stream of it shooting through him along with arousal that wanted fulfilling, immediately. He could only see, and feel, what was in front of him, and something about that reckless focus was immensely freeing. 

Peter might have been shocked by this explosive progression any other day but today, he wasn’t, at all. In the moment it was entirely apparent that they’d both been waiting painfully, chastely, to expunge an astonishing amount of sexual tension, and now it felt like absolute madness that they’d managed to sleep cuddled up together, wake together, bathe together, for the better part of two days, and not touch the way they both most wanted to. Just smouldering, hour after hour, needlessly. 

As soon as Carl had gotten Peter’s trousers urgently undone it was clear there wasn’t going to be any foreplay. The past two days had been the foreplay. They were already well into the fray. But it was a struggle, trousers and belt and all, to hoist them one-handed any further than to Peter’s knees.  
Peter broke their kiss and said shyly, with a little laugh, “Got my shoes on and everything”. Carl caught his breath, and looked at Peter with a charmed, sympathetic smile, a strand of his hair falling onto Peter’s cheek, eyes shining brightly, followed by a disarming look of hunger, shooting through that same light.

In a second Carl was up and tumbling Peter over onto his stomach with now-familiar supernatural ease - Peter was convinced he’d never tire of the thrill of that particular sensation, of being effortlessly arranged for plunder by nothing more than a pair of slender arms. It was a feeling of floating, a soft landing, the exhilarating weight of Carl’s body over his, and knowing what was coming next made his lip tremble. It didn’t matter than he was still mostly clothed, trapped in his jacket and shirt and dress shoes, that Carl’s soft skin was wrapped under the unforgiving layers of his scratchy work uniform. None of it mattered, not to either of them. They feverishly wanted only the connection, the fastest and most addictive one, they wanted to make love as immediately as humanely possible, and the logistics were completely meaningless. 

Carl’s mouth scraped against Peter’s neck, a barely audible moan already slipping between his lips, then the sound of a zip being undone, the shuffle of trousers being tugged down and the scramble of Carl’s thighs pressing over Peter’s, lined up dangerously, and then spitting – ah, back to that, Peter thought. It would have taken seconds to go retrieve their amateurish old tub of Vaseline from the bedroom but it was impossible, a distance that may as well have been swamped by snow and cyclone. No one was making a treacherous journey across the flat and interrupting this momentum. There wasn’t even a consideration of it.

Carl’s elbow sunk into the cushion alongside Peter’s arm, a pinch of skin momentarily trapped, a snap of pain, and then another - Carl’s knee pressing down hard onto Peter’s thigh as his weight shifted, bodies melding, and a third, the exquisite sort, the feeling of most wanted invasiveness.  
Carl was already inching inside him, probably too fast, but Peter just didn’t care at all, he couldn’t, he was dizzied with something that felt awfully like relief, his lyrical moan signalling to Carl that he had no need to alter his pace.  
It was seconds before Carl was moving inside him - fast and fluidly, and as that motion fell easily into a relentless rhythm, followed by a cacophony of snarled panting from Carl’s lovely, open mouth hovering above him, near to him, Peter let out a sharp cry. Carl watched him, stared with predatory focus at Peter’s face turned to the side, his eyes screwed closed, lips parted, his entire expression caught between bliss and a wince. He wanted to be closer, he wanted to smother him entirely, and at the push of that desire Carl dove down and pressed his face to Peter’s, slid along it, skin sticking, and stayed there, the bond tender among all the shuddering of it all. Carl’s gasp was followed by another and another as his hips fell downward and downward, growing slightly calmer now, slightly slower. 

Peter felt heat, intense familiar heat, rising and overfilling through his torso and it occurred to him that mere minutes into this beautiful calamity, without so much as a proper stroke of Carl’s hand, he was most definitely about to come. There wasn’t any way to stop it, he could feel it building and building with each push of Carl’s weight driving his cock gracelessly against the sofa beneath him. But he wanted to be touched, so badly, even if just for a second, and it had to be now or not at all. Peter slid himself up just a few inches onto his knees, just enough room, and grabbed for Carl’s hand, that knotted prize laying bunched into a fist alongside his chest.  
Carl understood immediately - he shifted his weight onto his other elbow without skipping a beat of those heavy, twisting thrusts and snaked his hand underneath Peter’s body, grabbed hold of his cock and barely managed one, two, three hot, quick strokes before he felt Peter’s entire body tense, felt him back up against him, draw him further inside, and then emit the most incredible whine as he came - a long, agonised, high-pitched moan from between clenched teeth, something primal and universally understood, a sound that makes hair stand on end. 

Oh fuck - was the only thought Carl had had in several minutes. His heart sped into an adrenaline-fuelled thumping and he wanted more, of anything - just more. He freed his hand from under Peter’s wilting form and yanked up Peter’s shirt and jacket, just to see more skin, to feel more skin. He dragged up his own shirt and plastered himself down, his bare stomach pressed into the small of Peter’s back, a near-audible sizzle of chemical alchemy igniting them both and he too was done for. Just four more of those delicious thrusts, four more seesawing bounces of Peter’s body back against his and he groaned, up into the air above him as he came, heat rushing from the middle of him every direction outward, crashing around him, a wave of simple, gorgeous pleasure. A few more gentle, pointless slides, just to feel that left-over electricity jolting distantly, and he sunk down onto the comforting, familiar shape of Peter underneath him, and was still. 

It was quiet, loudly quiet, but for their laboured breathing in unison; their sweat-misted faces resting together, cheek to cheek.  
They were floating back into themselves, back into the room, and as he opened his eyes the first thing Peter saw was the bundle of flowers, looking back at him prettily, but with vague judgment. Well, it wasn’t particularly romantic, Peter agreed, as the damp stickiness beneath him began to register, but it was really rather good. He sniggered a little at himself, and that roused Carl from the land of the briefly dead. 

Carl shifted back onto his elbows and scooped the hair stuck to his face out of his eyes. He didn’t know how to... disembark, really. After all that well choreographed lust, he now had to hoist himself off Peter, both sets of their trousers tangled round their ankles like straight jackets, and do it in a dignified manner. And he had to say... something, after all that. He could only think of one thing.  
“Ah... sorry,” Carl mumbled.  
His voice breaking the silence was absolutely jarring to Peter, and he opened his mouth to say the same thing he might have any other time - it’s alright - but he didn’t want to say that. He wanted to say exactly how he felt. So he did.  
“I loved it,” he breathed. “Every second”.  
The pained beginnings of a moan rumbled in Carl’s throat, snuffed out by his mouth coming down on Peter’s neck to kiss it, hard, with the last energy of what had just transpired. When Peter felt it - the breathy approach of Carl’s mouth, the pressure of his lips, a flick of his tongue against his skin - Peter closed his eyes, languished in the sensation, and knew he’d said the right thing. 

Carl climbed straight off him after that, and quickly assembled himself back into his pants and trousers. Peter lay there another few moments, staring at his flowers, one arm having slid off the sofa and laying idly on the carpet.  
The delay gave Carl occasion to glance upon the body he’d just ravished - Peter laying there dazed, enormous feet propped over an arm of the sofa, one shoe dangling halfway off, trousers tangled at an angle, one leg at his calf, the other lower, pale, bare bottom emerging from under a slightly too-big jacket, tissued remnants of a white shirt scalloped along its edges. He still had a bloody bow tie on, Carl realised. The whole scene honestly looked bloody comical. 

Before he gave it another thought, Carl stepped forward – declared, “Up you get!” and gave Peter a jolly slap on that alluringly bare behind.  
Peter was up on his hands in an instant, a gigantic, girlish squeal shooting out of his mouth. Then he looked at Carl, they looked at one another, and giggled, so stupidly joyfully, that they both knew they were sharing a lovely little moment, something daft and sweet and just theirs. 

Carl picked up the gin and took an almighty swig while Peter rolled himself over and got his pants on, which took some fussing. Properly attired, finally, he extended his arm to take the bottle from Carl, who readily offered it.  
There was a pause, and then Peter wondered out loud, a little hesitantly, “Did you still want to go out?”  
A night in - after what just happened - surely held some sensational promise. But Peter wanted his adventure with Carl. He wanted everything with Carl that there was.  
“Of course,” Carl answered, with a warmth of tone that took into account Peter’s hesitation. He didn’t want Peter to think he didn’t want to go now either, because he did, very much.  
“I’ll get changed,” Carl said, taking the bottle back for another sip.  
“I might, as well,” Peter said, inspecting himself, “You’ve crumpled me shirt”.  
Carl giggled heartily down the neck of the gin bottle and set it down by the roses.  
“Last time I give you flowers,” he said, “Turns out you’re a very cheap date”.  
“Ayyy!” Peter yelped, but he laughed, easily and happily, and seeing Peter laugh like that made Carl feel something very like pride.  
They looked at each other a second, like a pair of moon-eyed teenagers. Which in essence, they were. The spark growing, drips of it, over from the start.  
“Right, I’m getting changed,” Carl said, and stalked off before he was tempted to relive the entire sofa business over again. 

Peter stood there, unable to move for a little, before he glanced at the slightly upended cushions, presently discovering the god awful stain he’d left all over the middle one. He picked it up and flipped it over - only to find the other side equally but more anciently stained from their last sofa-based dalliance. Oh well. At least that side was dry. 

Peter wandered off to the bathroom to tidy himself up and then to his bedroom to change, which he eventually opted not to do. Instead he sat on his bed and watched Carl put on, and take off, a number of shirts before settling on one. As he did the buttons up, Carl noticed that his hands were shaky, and for once he knew why he was rattled. He glanced up at Peter, so mesmerised while watching him dress, a goofy smile on his big, kiddish head, and Carl knew that he was feeling a lurking disconnection. Between Peter his friend, who he loved, and who he’d do anything for, and the Peter he’d left half naked and properly fucked on the sofa not minutes before. He couldn’t make them the same person in his head, not now and probably not ever. He shuddered, imperceptibly to Peter, but he felt it, a cold chill of fear. 

There was another emotion too, the one he clung to. The sense of adventure. That was bigger than all of it, because it had to be. And whichever Peter he was taking with him tonight didn’t matter. They were going together. 

Carl was ready, finally, close to one in the morning, but no less eager to leave. As he cruised out of his room, reflexively, Carl held his hand out to lift Peter off his viewing platform on the bed. Peter took Carl’s hand, stood, and held onto it. Carl let him, let Peter’s bigger fingers lock between his as they made their way down the hall and through the dim flat. He let Peter hold on, until they were through the door and at the bottom of the stairs. There he finally loosened his grip, shook his fingers free, slipping his hands into his pockets as the night air hit them both.


	12. Chapter 12

Peter and Carl stumbled through the door before the dawn after a relatively short but eventful evening. Peter was far worse for wear than Carl was, and Carl opted to essentially carry him home while he still could.

They’d started by buying two of the cheapest bottles of booze they could find – Carl had squirreled away another handful of pounds, he was crafty like that, Peter thought – and thanks to already having bellies full of gin, quickly managed to get extremely sozzled, using that bravery to tear through the nearest pub, nicking people’s drinks off their tables when they weren’t watching.

Only an hour or so into their adventure, they were both steaming drunk, and, after Carl showed Peter what he’d set out to – a recently abandoned building with a crumbling staircase that led to a spectacular view of the city – they sat on the roof for a time, having an animated, drunken discussion, laden with the kind of dubious inspiration that comes from a few drinks too many.

Carl had plans to make it a little more eventful – the ground floor of the building had incredible acoustics, but with all the chaos of what had happened between them that evening, he’d completely forgotten to suggest they take their guitars. Still, they made use of the space, howling songs into the ceiling, listening to them bounce off the walls with operatic reverberation.

Another round of drink stealing at the local followed, by the end of which Peter had become too sloppy to be stealth, was caught, and promptly ejected from the venue, not before Carl had to stop him getting punched in the nose by a very irate punter.

All in all, it was what passed for adventure to the two of them, and Carl decided to call it quits despite Peter’s protestations – and his no doubt dangerous suggestion that they should return to roof of the abandoned building to watch the sun rise. It was a romantic idea, but Carl was fairly convinced Peter was going to snap his spine if he tried to climb those falling-apart stairs when he was struggling to stand and walking in wide, wobbly zig-zags.

And so with Peter’s arm slung over Carl’s shoulder, Carl’s around his waist, they ambled home, with Peter making several dangerous slides along the concrete along the way.

As soon as they were through the door – not even up the stairs as yet – Peter swung himself round off Carl’s shoulder, indelicately backed him into the nearest wall in the narrow stairway, and planted a sloppy kiss on his lips, quite urgently pressing against Carl’s body as he did. Carl let him, for a moment anyway, detaching him with a soft laugh. Peter smiled at him, woozy and half-blind.  
“Come on, get upstairs,” Carl said, and hoisted Peter’s increasingly heavy arm back over his shoulder to lumber him up there. 

Once they were through the front door, Peter repeated his efforts to solicit a snog – he crammed Carl against the door in the same dramatic fashion and proceeded to lodge his tongue in his mouth. Carl gave him a little more patience the second time, letting Peter press himself hard against his crotch and mash his mouth against Carl’s with such vigour that Carl’s head knocked into the door behind him. It was when Peter’s hands began indelicately wandering below Carl’s belt that he again untangled himself from Peter’s elastic embrace. At that, Peter made a long whine from behind closed, pouting lips and circled his arms heavily around Carl’s neck.

“Why not?” Peter slurred.  
“Because you’re pissed and you need to go to bed,” Carl said in a fatherly tone.  
“I’m fine,” Peter slurred, smiling a wicked, drunken grin. “I want you,” he added.  
Carl rolled his eyes at that, partly because he was a little embarrassed by Peter’s audacity.  
“Not now,” Carl said firmly, unwinding Peter’s snaking arms and turning him around to march him to bed.  
He wasn’t himself sure why he was working so hard to turn Peter down, it wasn’t like he had any doubt Peter did in fact, want him. And, he was fairly drunk himself, and most definitely would have been happy to end the night with some shenanigans. He simply felt that he was doing the honourable thing.

Once in the bedroom, Peter collapsed sideways across his bed, clothes and all, and lay there, eyes closed. Carl flipped on the lamp and looked at him warmly, stripping of his own coat and boots before he leaned down to take Peter’s shoes off for him.

Peter helped him, kicking them off, then popped his head up.  
“While you’re down there,” he said, with all the leer of a red-nosed pub dweller.  
“Oh lord,” Carl intoned, but he couldn’t help but be entertained.  
He decided Peter was far too drunk and randy for him to go anywhere near removing his trousers, but he helped him out of his coat, upon the completion of which Peter grabbed for Carl’s arms and tried to pull him down.  
Carl laughed and shook himself free.  
“Stop it,” he said, but there was an amorous amusement dancing in his tone.

Not to be dissuaded, Peter pulled off his own shirt and started on his belt.  
“Biggles, come get in bed!” he slurred merrily, like a demanding child that had gotten into the Christmas brandy.  
Carl stood up, hands on his slim hips, and surveyed the slithering, half-dressed creature before him, who was currently clumsily attempting to rid himself of his trousers.

With a sigh of resignation, Carl reached down and hoisted them off for him.  
Peter grabbed again for Carl’s arms, clawing at the air in a most comical manner. This time he succeeded in dragging Carl’s body atop his, only because Carl had stepped forward, given him his hands, and let himself be yanked down.

The magnetic warmth that rose between them was instant, intoxicating just as much as they both were intoxicated.  
Peter’s arms fell languidly around Carl’s shoulders and he gazed at him with disarming affection.  
“Let’s make love,” he purred, and Carl yet again laughed.  
“You’re a messy Bilo,” he replied, but he was smiling stupidly, he couldn’t help it.  
“I love when you call me that,” Peter declared, with all the hyperbolic passion of a very drunk man, which he was, but he meant it, too.  
“Take your clothes off at least,” Peter complained, since Carl was still in a shirt and trousers. 

Carl smiled, shook his head no - though he couldn’t help but offer a kiss, and Peter latched on hungrily, with a murmur, his hands pressing onto Carl’s neck. The kiss was undeniably delicious, hot, alcoholic breath billowing from their noses, their eyes closing hard and inhaling it, breathing one another in, meditatively consuming sugary spit and the invisible chemicals that mingling made.

After a long lull of that sweet kissing, just the wet sound of their lips meeting filing the room along with the faint din of the street outside, they slowly parted. Carl rested his head gently on Peter's forehead, their bodies pressed together.

Peter laughed then, softly, a little emission of happiness, and Carl smiled in return, his eyes closed, and nuzzled down blindly, restarting their kiss. 

It lasted another few languid moments before Peter pulled his mouth away, planting it on Carl’s neck instead. In the process, Carl became aware of Peter’s hands inching onto his shoulders and gently but firmly pushing Carl downwards.

Carl popped his head up. “What are you doing?” he asked, still fairly jovial, and in response, Peter pushed him down harder.  
With a laugh at his bravery – and now getting a sense of what Peter was trying to make happen - Carl pried Peter’s hands off his shoulders.  
To that, Peter emitted a whine of protest that sounded more like a puppyish howl.  
“Please. I do it all the time,” he said, elongating each word at irritating length.  
Carl felt a burning rise in his cheeks that was undoubtedly the start of a blush.

He was partly embarrassed because Peter had, in not so many words, just gone ahead and asked him for a blow job, which itself felt confronting. But more so, he was embarrassed by what should have been obvious before now – if Peter had found the voice to ask, it meant Carl had long been creating a deficit by not returning the favour. And he had an odd sensation for the first time – of feeling like he’d failed as a lover, at least where this, whatever this was with Peter, was concerned. It was not a feeling he would embrace with quite so much vigour if he wasn’t rather drunk at this minute, but with his seesawing, boozy emotions in play, he genuinely felt quite bad about it. A little blow to the ego, even. He knew Peter was particularly fond of that specific act - he’d told him so in the past. While Carl supposed most boys were, Peter had a particular romance about it, and remembering that just now made Carl feel even guiltier. 

Problem was that although he was certainly drunk, he wasn’t drunk enough, far enough out of himself, to eagerly try it. It’s not that he hadn’t considered it or thought about it, because of course he had. And he distantly assumed it would sort of just happen at some stage, if he was ever struck with an urge bigger than his resistance anyway. Right now, the idea left him feeling rattled and uncomfortable - while simultaneously tugging at him as a very enticing, filthy concept that seemed as bold as jumping out of a plane and just as thrilling. 

Peter eyeballed Carl, woozily clocking his stern but befuddled thinking face, the one that looked a little like he’d seen a surprisingly attractive ghost.  
“Just for a bit,” Peter encouraged him. “Just for a second”. 

This Carl wasn’t used to at all. For all of Peter’s pushiness and manipulation in every other facet of his life, his bedroom antics were, usually at least, mercifully free of anything but the most gentle coercion. It wasn’t fun for Peter if he didn’t have a very eager participant, to his credit, and Carl knew that well. Carl also knew Peter wouldn’t ask if he wasn’t piss drunk to the point where it was very possible he wouldn’t remember asking at all. And that was weirdly freeing, though might well result in Carl’s efforts being in vain. If Peter couldn’t remember it, it wouldn’t have happened at all. And that wasn’t even slightly fair. 

“No use mulling over it like a maths problem, do it or don’t,” Peter slurred, with a snooty sniff to boot.  
“God you’re annoying,” Carl answered. And he was genuinely a little irritated but he found himself - just, drifting downward. Almost involuntarily, like Peter had managed to manifest it through sheer grievance. 

As soon as Peter registered Carl’s slide - down his bare chest, stopping at his belly to plant a soft kiss there - he lost a portion of his drunken confidence and genuinely froze up. He figured if he stayed immensely still, he’d have a better chance of not swinging Carl’s trajectory. So he lay there, head tilted upward, and let Carl vanish below his line of sight. 

Carl got as far down as hovering over what was now a very aggressive looking erection wrapped obscenely in the thin layer of Peter’s pale underwear. It looked surprisingly more intimidating than he thought it should. He wasn’t ready to broach the perimeter, so to speak, so he started safely - by laying his hand over the outline, pressing his palm down on that very familiar hardness, which in the moment had been made oddly unfamiliar by the shift in expectation. Carl curled his fingers around and Peter exhaled, his chest rising upward in what was an ever so slightly quivering display of anticipation. That exhalation of desire pushed Carl onwards, gave him the nudge he badly needed. He lay his head down, carefully, along Peter’s torso and, without yet removing his underwear, he pressed his mouth against the fabric, just his lips, meeting the tip of that outlined hardness, his breath creating a wet heat that made Peter’s mouth drop open with an airy squeak. 

Peter looked down then - he didn’t have the necessary inhibition intact to resist the urge, and he was glad he didn’t. There was the exquisite sight of Carl, curled round along the edge of mattress, knees bent, still fully clothed, hair in his eyes, and that lovely mouth pressed against the ridged outline of his cock in the most alluring way. 

Peter didn’t want to interrupt but he also boozily figured if he got his underwear off himself it might help move things along. It was definitely the wrong idea. Carl was quite happy where he was, buoying himself with a slow and sensual approach, which Peter put an abrupt end to by shifting around to try and remove his pants.

Carl stopped him, pushing Peter’s hands away in irritation.  
“Let me... just don’t do anything,” Carl complained.  
“Sorry,” Peter said, but he wouldn’t lay back down and be still and bloody quiet, instead he sat all the way up to collect Carl in a kiss, which he surrendered to, even if he was bothered by the unpredictable participant he was now actively trying to get to stop moving so he could calmly suck him off. 

Peter pulled out of the kiss, lay back down, and giggled, loudly. That’s when Carl decided this really wasn’t the moment for this to happen. Not because he didn’t want to do it, in fact he’d grown enthused by the idea. But Peter was just, not really with him and it didn’t feel... for want of a less silly sentiment, special. He knew perfectly well Peter’s first efforts at this same activity had been enacted clumsily when Carl was very sloppy and barely able to speak himself. And it was therefore unfair to stop on those grounds. But Carl had lost his nerve, and back up he went. 

He lay next to Peter who instantly sat up, looking horrified.  
“I’ll be still!” he insisted, in a great, childish whine.  
Carl didn’t so much sigh as jaggedly expel air.  
“Another time” he said simply, in a way that made it clear that was his final answer on the subject.  
Peter crashed back down onto the pillow.  
“That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever done to me,” he declared, and buried his face in a wad of bedding.  
Carl opened his mouth to say something but he didn’t know what.  
It didn’t seem to matter, because Peter re-emerged after a handful of seconds, smiling and woozy, as if he’d entirely forgotten what they’d even been discussing.  
“Get your clothes off,” he demanded, tugging at Carl’s shirt. 

For what, at that point, Carl didn’t even know, but he dutifully complied - Peter climbing onto his elbow and watching with half-open eyes and a silly sideways smile as he did. Carl took the lot off - slipping under the covers once he was entirely naked which again, he didn’t know what for, because Peter didn’t seem to be present enough to do anything much.

Peter giggled again, to himself, mouth closed, trapping mumbled laughter, and turned himself onto his stomach, presumably offering himself for the taking.  
Carl shook his head, but accepted the offer, because at this point, he was feeling an encroaching sexual frustration, among his various other frustrations. 

He peeled Peter out of his underwear and looked at him a moment, his arms folded under his head, his long body, stripped but for his socks, that goofy grin on his face.  
It wasn’t going to be the most fun sex they’d ever had, but Carl figured it would put an end to the night’s tomfoolery and they could go to bloody sleep.

Carl scrambled around finding their rapidly emptying tub of makeshift lubricant, which he worked out after a minute long search had made its way onto the floor by the bed, and got into position.  
As soon as he lined himself up to get started, a grisly snore erupted from Peter beneath him.  
Carl stopped dead and glared at Peter’s tousled head, buried by hair.  
“Are you asleep?” he asked him loudly.  
Peter jolted awake.  
“No?” he answered, most unconvincingly.  
Carl proceeded to climb off him, but Peter grabbed at his wrist.  
“I’ll just lie here, do whatever you like,” he pleaded in a deep slur.  
“I feel like I’m committing a crime,” Carl deadpanned, and Peter laughed wearily into the pillow.  
Carl climbed off altogether then, and lay down beside Peter’s limp form. He knew for sure that Peter was no longer in any position to argue. They were definitely done for the night. 

Peter rolled round to face him, so Carl cuddled in next to him too, nose to nose, and gave him a kiss on the forehead.  
Peter smiled, cracked open his eyes just touch, and closed them again.  
“You know,” he mumbled, then paused.  
“What do I know?” Carl asked, bemused.  
“You should try it. I think you’d like it,” Peter continued, in an increasingly less intelligible mumble.  
“Maybe, if you didn’t keep interrupting,” Carl replied.  
Peter’s eyes cracked open once more.  
“No not that. The other thing,” he said, pointing haphazardly at his bottom to make his point.  
Carl giggled heartily, more at the display than the comment.  
“I’m very serious!” Peter insisted, but it was admittedly hard to take him seriously when every word he said threatened to come with a stream of drool.  
“If you let me do it. You’d enjoy it. I have a feeling,” Peter went on, then his little lizard eyes peaked out as he asked, “Are you not curious?”  
Carl met those watery eye slits, and considered the question. Peter was so far gone that Carl didn’t even feel particularly uncomfortable answering. Though it would certainly be the first time he clearly acknowledged the thought, even to himself, let alone out loud.  
“Ah,” Carl began, then let himself just say it. “I guess I could be. I probably am. It’s natural to be curious about things... like that... I suppose”.  
Peter’s eyes widened, as much as they could at this point.  
“Do you want to do it now?” he said, smacking his dry lips, then he added, “I’m really thirsty”.  
Carl sniggered. “Is one going to solve the other?” he joked.  
Peter looked confused. “What?” he asked.  
“Nevermind,” Carl answered, “I’ll get you some water”. 

Carl got out of bed, went and fetched a cup and as he stood at the kitchen sink, pouring it, he thought about what Peter had asked him. Curiosity was one thing, doing things was another. He didn’t want Peter to have the impression that was an invitation. Was it? It wasn’t, surely. All he said was that he was curious and curiosity was perfectly normal, he told himself as he walked down the hall, drinking Peter’s water. It took him a second to realise he’d drunk the lot before he turned back and filled the bloody cup again. Curiosity is definitely fine, he decided on the return trip. No one was doing anything and it was all just hypothetical and that’s that. 

Peter was inevitably snoring when Carl returned, so he just set the cup on the bedside table, switched off the lamp and climbed in beside him.  
Peter awoke with a wheezy pant, and coughed.  
He looked at Carl through the dimness like it was the first time he’d seen him all night.  
“Do you want to make love?” he mumbled.  
Carl rolled his eyes. “We already have. Here,” he added, grabbing the cup, “Have some water”.  
Peter sipped, then looked up at Carl, all wobbly and sleepy.  
“Did we? I can’t remember,” Peter said. “Do you want to go again then?”  
Carl took the cup from Peter’s hands and a set it aside, then tucked himself in bed.  
“Go to sleep Peter,” he said in a soft but parental fashion.  
Peter nodded and slid down too, curling himself close to Carl, breathing in his breath as he dozed.  
It was no longer all that quiet outside: the bustle of people and cars and kids was growing closer, but all the pair of them listened to was one another: breath, heartbeat, small movements of pillows, small twitches of muscles, as they slowly fell asleep.  
“I love you,” Peter said, after a minute or two, so sweetly, in a thick whisper laden with the meaning of the words it carried. It made Carl feel instantly cosy all over, like the oncoming of sleep itself.  
“I love you too,” Carl mumbled back, his eyes closed so heavily, dark behind them closing in, and curled his arm around Peter’s waist.  
“It’s not the same, is it Biggles?” Peter asked so quietly, as if asking from a dream.  
Carl’s eyes flickered open, his heart missed a beat, along with that feeling of it dropping, then the following beat thudded twice as hard in turn, out of time, like hearts do when they’re about to palpitate.  
He swallowed. “Of course it’s the same,” he insisted weakly, his eyes fixing on Peter’s lashes, intricately laced closed in the encroaching blue light of the coming dawn, at his swollen lips, pouting in some faraway place.  
“I hope so,” Peter said, his mouth barely moving, his voice a whisper, and he was asleep. 

Carl forced his own eyes closed and told himself to sleep, too. He didn’t dare try and make sense of what had sacred him about Peter’s slurred proclamations. He pushed his eyelids closed even harder and as he did, a tear escaped out one corner, so stark and invasive as the air turned it cold down his cheek.  
Stop it, he told himself. You’re drunk and emotional and he’s drunk and emotional, and none of it will matter tomorrow.  
Just go to sleep, Carl told himself. Just sleep it off. 

When he woke, head aching and general hungover malaise washing over him with a pinch of anxiety, Carl assumed Peter would still be out cold.  
Instead, he turned his head to find Peter staring at him, his face partially hidden by the duvet he was holding against it like a shield, only his startled eyes and wild hair visible over the top. 

“Was I awful?” Peter asked immediately, muffled but mortified voice travelling from under the covers.  
“You were sort of fun actually. For a change,” Carl answered wryly.  
Peter’s eyes widened further.  
“What do you even remember?” Carl asked. “You were properly battered”.  
“Everything!” Peter declared with an air of woe.  
Carl raised an eyebrow dubiously.  
“Alright, not much, actually,” Peter admitted, removing the covers from his mouth.  
“But the… bad thing,” he said, elaborately miming the action of pushing Carl down with his hands.  
Carl sniggered. “It’s alright,” he said soothingly.  
“I’ve done the exact same thing myself, albeit with more success,” he added, trying to be both flippant and comforting.  
Peter frowned at that. Clearly he was forgiven, though depressingly, he didn’t even have a sense of achievement to go along with it.  
“Forget it, just shenanigans,” Carl said, climbing out from under the covers and retrieving his underwear.  
“Are you going to work?” Peter asked sadly. He felt absolutely dreadful, physically, that is, and the concept of spending the evening alone was compounding that misery.  
“Not for hours, it’s only noon,” Carl answered. “You should go back to sleep”.  
“Can’t,” Peter whined. “Feel too horrible”.  
“You got very sloppy, didn’t you,” Carl said with amusement, leaning in to give Peter’s hair a scruff.  
He was feeling cheerful enough – Peter wasn’t always just, silly, sexy fun when he was drunk. He could be moody and clingy and aggressive, so really, all in all, Carl felt it was a fairly uneventful evening despite the various… issues that had been raised.

Off Carl wandered to the bathroom, on his way back passing a rather fragile Peter in the hall, who was up to do the same. Peter drank a few gulps of water from the tap but found himself desperate for something more substantial. He hadn’t eaten properly in days, and neither of them were due to get paid till later in the week. It was going to be a meagre time. Tea would suffice, he figured, so he brokenly stumbled off to make some for them both, gripping the kitchen sink for dear life as he waited the seemingly endless minutes it took till the kettle boiled. 

Carl meanwhile lay in bed, smoking one of his final remaining cigarettes, and was contemplating what Peter had said to him before they fell asleep. He found himself setting aside Peter’s ‘hypotheticals’ and attempts at upping the physical stakes with surprising ease. It genuinely didn’t bother him, it had even been… titillating. 

But there was a shudder of awareness spinning round his head at what Peter had meant when he’d said “I love you”. It was the first time he’d heard him say it in a way that made him unsure of what truly lay behind the words. Loving one another was simple, they’d felt a kinship fairly called ‘love’ very quickly. They’d drunkenly professed love, in a friendly, brotherly way, a few times that he recalled, and probably another few he’d forgotten. But what Peter had implied wasn’t just that. It was something far more cavernous in intention, and Carl found himself mulling over the creeping terror of it all in fruitless circles. 

What would he do about it, if Peter had meant it how it sounded? How did he feel, himself, if that was the case? Was it the same? Did he just say that to placate the danger? Did he actually mean it, in the moment, before logic and fear swamped his natural hair-trigger response? That last consideration sent an electric panic through his hands, like a distant static shock, and they began to shake, just at the tips of the fingers which held his cigarette. Carl was making himself nervous, and he had to stop thinking about it, post haste. 

Peter came tumbling in, spilling tea, in the nick of time. Carl sat up to relieve him of one of the cups, and steady the rollicking ocean of greyish liquid within.  
“Not much milk left?” Carl asked as Peter climbed in beside him with his own cup.  
“Oh,” Peter said, swapping the cups around, “You’ve got mine. I gave you more.”  
Carl looked at his now much creamier mugful with affectionate confusion.  
“That’s sweet of you,” he said, and Peter shrugged, although he was pleased with himself for his sacrifice. There were only dregs of milk left, but plenty of sugar, and he’d loaded his own tea with several spoons to make a meal of it. 

“I’m so hungry,” Peter complained, as he sipped his tea and sniffed.  
“I know,” Carl agreed. “Three more days till payday.”  
“We’re going to starve to death,” Peter declared.  
“We’ll work something out,” Carl replied encouragingly.  
“I have some ideas for how I can get some money,” Peter said, “But I can’t do them today. I’m too hungover”.  
Carl didn’t ask what the ideas were – he had no doubt that if they weren’t illegal, they were definitely immoral. Or both. In reality Peter just planned to sell a few things from around the flat – mostly Carl’s lesser used but rarer records, which would take him a few weeks to notice were missing. 

There was silence for a time, they drank tea, they shared what was now Carl’s second last cigarette – and he was counting, because he was displeased at the concept of going days without one. Supposed he could bum them from his friends, if Peter ever let him go out alone again, without making a huge scene anyway. 

“When do you have to go?” Peter said eventually. Carl looked at him, and noticed Peter was eyeing him with a trickling warmth that looked like the beginnings of lust.  
“Still a couple hours yet,” Carl responded, without checking the time. It had only been 20 or so minutes since Peter had last asked. But Carl had a sense now that the question had an ulterior motive buried within. 

He was correct – Peter recalled unhappily that he didn’t have the courage to suggest some quick lovemaking before Carl went to work the day prior, and this time he felt he should speak up. He was especially encouraged by the casual way Carl seemed to be taking in their taboo conversational topics, drunk as they were, the night before. It felt like some small corner had been turned, and he was ecstatic for any progress of the sort. 

Carl cottoned on, and decided to make it easier for Peter – he sidled over for a smooch, and they shared one, a gentle morning kiss, steaming tea cupped in each of their hands. Peter pulled out of the kiss, downed the rest of his slightly too-hot beverage, eyeing Carl saucily over the rim as he did the same. The cups were haphazardly tipped onto the bedside table one after the other and Peter slid down, pulling Carl atop him, back into that sweet kiss. 

They had nothing much left to take off, their bare skin was already sticking, bellies pressed together, as the kiss became more of a grind, their mutual hardness evident. Things became presently urgent – both of them had been left rather randy following their night of unfinished business, and underwear came off before there was even any real touching, the pair of them stripping themselves at speed, Carl briskly reaching for their sad Vaseline, which had become wedged between the mattress and the bedframe. Peter wondered briefly how it had ended up in the bed, and with a cringe realised that while he was sure they didn’t really do anything, he’d likely forgotten more than he thought. 

There was no thinking about that now – Carl’s body was back on top of his, Carl’s mouth was open and lovely, his wet tongue tasting of tea and cigarettes. Without further delay, Peter slid his legs up, over Carl's thighs, resting them along the curved line of his hips, and Carl responded by reaching down, between them both, and working his cock easily inside with a gorgeous murmur.

He opened his eyes as he did it, watching Peter closely, keeping their eyes locked as he began his sway, sucking his bottom lip as he climbed up onto his and began to move briskly. His gasps projecting across Peter's face, the look in both their eyes intensified until they were forehead to forehead, Peter reaching up and holding onto Carl's face, Carl kissing his fingers in response.

There was no shyness whatsoever. They were plainly on top of the covers, plainly naked, and Carl was glancing down every so often at Peter's body, at his own moving against it, vanishing inside of it, with nothing but lustful hunger.

The breaking down of those barriers had been coming in fits and bursts for weeks. A night of drunken confession and playfulness was exactly what they needed at the minute. For the first time, the sex they had was uncomplicated. It was just so nice, so arousing, so comforting, and nothing else. 

Carl looked down at Peter, and Peter looked back at him, smiling, laughing a little now and then, a giddy glee replacing all the often coiled, tense energy of the past few weeks. Their bodies tangled, their skin meeting softly, then faster and harder, the look in Carl's eyes growing hungrier and wilder as the minutes slid by.

He ducked down to kiss Peter, so warmly, his hips swaying in a series of fluid thrusts that rapidly sent heat rising through his torso. The sound of their skin meeting increased to a delirious speed, Peter crying out each time Carl swung down towards him, raking his back with his fingertips as he did.

Carl's own groans grew loud and consistent, until finally his eyes locked in on Peter, his lips parted, a gasp leaving them before his eyes clasped shut again, and he collapsed down, his entire body connecting with Peter's body, every inch fusing. He latched on to Peter's mouth as his hips rocked a few last times, the crescendo of his orgasm arriving as a spidery quiver racing up and down his legs, his arms, his stomach.

Carl sighed so heavily, pleasure flowing and flowing through him, and Peter wrapped his arms around him and held him, held Carl so tightly against his chest. He held him still as Carl shuddered so beautifully in his arms with the last dregs of release, sliding slowly inside Peter's hot, damp body for a few more strokes before they finally parted.

It was over a little too fast, Peter felt, as Carl showered his face, his cheeks, with smiling kisses. With one more jovial smooch, Carl climbed off gently and lay beside Peter on his stomach, his hand reaching out to rest upon Peter's chest. Carl seemed calm, and happy, a hint of a smile on his face, but Peter felt very far from finished.

Peter made a little sound then, a petulant squeak of desire, and Carl looked at him, then down along his naked body, illuminated in streaks by intrusive beams of light through the curtains, with a surprising amount of lust considering he was entirely spent.

Impatiently, Peter turned and cuddled into Carl's neck, nuzzling him, attempting to get himself seen to without having to ask. Carl kissed the tip of his nose, then his lips, before climbing up on his elbow and looking down Peter's body once more, the effect of which filled Peter with a hint of shyness.

Carl had a look on his face like he was deciding something delicious. Peter sensed some thrilling thing was about to happen, and it did, at once. Carl slid down the bed, pushing himself along on one arm until he was off the mattress altogether, kneeling on the floor alongside the bedframe. Soon as he was situated, he effortlessly dragged Peter sideways by the hips until his legs were dangling over the edge of the mattress.

In the midst of the spin, Peter’s heart began slamming against his ribcage in disbelief at what was clearly occurring – he only felt very briefly embarrassed that he still had his socks on, and that was forgotten as fast as it was thought of. He had to sit up and look, he had to watch this magic thing unfold. Peter had only just perched up on his elbows and gazed down when he felt the tingling pleasure of Carl's beautiful hands laying on his hips, shortly followed by his soft lips pressing down on Peter's stomach. 

Peter drew a sharp breath, his chest tightening, as he realised this was most definitely happening. "Oh god," he said aloud, and Carl smiled, just a fraction, at the utterance.

Peter reached down to shakily stroke Carl's hair, just briefly, and then Carl's mouth was moving along down the soft curve of his belly, along his hip bones, down to his thighs, kissing each one, before he made his delicate approach. 

As Carl cast his eyes over the sight in front of him, and found it all strangely less intimidating than he had the night before. Perhaps because he had broken the ice, so to speak. It was something he’d already decided he’d do at some point, even if previously that thought clamoured only distantly in his mind when it crossed it. That he’d felt bad about not doing it before stuck with him, too, but rather than feeling guilt, he just felt – excited, he had to admit, to do something that Peter was clearly going to be delighted with. There was a certain flattery to that feeling, the kind that can only come from pleasing some you care about in such an intimate way. 

There was a lightning fast pause, a split second of hesitation, before Peter gasped, loud and long, as he felt Carl's lips connect with his cock. Just a hot kiss at first, then his wet bottom lip dragging along his flesh. Just a small, warm slide, and Peter was already overcome: audibly gasping, rolling about on his elbows, barely able to contain himself, when Carl's steaming mouth came down and consumed him completely.

Peter cried out, helplessly, his hand sliding down onto Carl's head and griping a handful of hair at the crown of his head. That head travelled down again, Carl's lips, his tongue, soft and firm against the most delicate parts of Peter's skin. He kept moving, his lips sliding up and down softly, Peter watching it all happen in the shafts of midday light, his eyes tracing over the edges of Carl's fingers, still laid delicately across his hips, gazing up Carl's arms to his face, his soft lashes, his concentrated, closed eyes, watching his cock disappear between those beautiful, wet lips, watching Carl's hair swing down, the tips of his curls tickling Peter's belly.

It was all so deliriously lovely, so beautifully surprising. It was something Carl had never done, not properly, and today, they found themselves in a place of calm and exploration. A moment when for a little while, things were genuinely blissful. Just a little while, and they knew it, but it didn't matter. They let it wash over them both.

Peter sat up a little higher, wiggling onto his hands until he was near to sitting, wanting a better view, wanting to be closer to this incredible thing Carl had deigned to do. Peter was entirely titillated, a head-to-toes, rollercoaster kind of delight, feeling something like wonder, while Carl now felt something closer to nervousness. He quickly realised he wasn’t exactly sure if what he was doing was any good. It felt like something he should know, but just like Peter had discovered during his own early explorations, all this talk of naturally mastering the art because you have the same equipment was more than a little overstated. 

At first, all Carl could concentrate on was trying to approximate a half decent job of the task at hand. It felt so strange, the thickness of Peter's cock in his mouth so alien and odd to manoeuvre around, not that Peter, for all his blinding excitement, had noticed the slight fumble to Carl's first few strokes. It took several minutes of Carl repeating those same soft, gentle motions before he gained a little confidence, and thought to add a little pressure, just a gentle suck, his tongue rolling along after it. And when he did, Peter's guttural moan was instant, his head flying back to emit that sharp sound into the air, his hand coming back up to cradle Carl's head, then his face flying down again to keenly watch Carl in the act.

It was a solid reassurance, and it pleased Carl to be sending Peter into a rapture. Carl could relax a little more, so he did, and he began to pay attention to the sensations - the drag of Peter's flesh against his lips, the nudge of it close to his throat, the slide of it across the roughness of his tongue, the arousing taste of it, the tickling of his cheek brushing repeatedly against the hair trailing down, thick and warm, below the line of Peter's hips. It was a level of acute intimacy, of visceral physical exchange, that was inescapably intense.

Doubly so as Carl hit upon a persistent rhythm, his mouth coming down and down and down, Peter's vocalisations, along with his grip on Carl's head, intensifying. It was then that Carl tasted the beginnings of that saltiness on his tongue, and made the same realisation that Peter had the first time he had done this - he was going to have to decide how this would end.

For the first time during the act, however, at that moment Carl wasn't nervous. He found himself getting exponentially more turned on, heat travelling in spikes through his torso, bringing his cock slowly back to life. A surprisingly tantalising pleasure began to grow each time his face planted down onto the soft curve of Peter's crotch, each time he went deeper, a touch of a gag rising in his throat, another wash of saltiness along his tongue, a stab of arousal accompanying each passing stroke.

Peter began to realise he too, was going to have to decide how this was going to end, because there had been no negation about it prior, and he didn’t just want to assume Carl would be overjoyed with a mouthful of come. In fairness, Carl never asked Peter before he gruntingly unloaded a number of orgasms down his throat, but Peter felt he was too sober to skip that particular politeness, albeit mournfully. 

He was going to have to interrupt, because it was coming up quickly. The pleasure building from inside him was volcanic, and he could barely get the words out.  
"Carl," he stuttered, tapping him on the shoulder, "Where... how should I finish?" he muttered breathlessly.  
Carl pulled his lips away then, the incredibly enjoyable sound of the wet pop of a suck interrupted filling the air, and caught his own breath.  
"Tap me, I'll come up," Carl said quickly, making very clipped eye contact.  
Then he dove straight back down into it.  
It was just… brilliant, Peter thought - the easy negotiation, the fact that Carl just went back to it, the fact that he was doing it at all. 

Carl was going fairly fast now, confidence brimming - but as he skid down a little too briskly, his teeth mashed along the edge of Peter's skin, causing Peter to yelp, then laugh. Carl came up again – that same sound followed, that wet pop, so addicting to Peter's ears - and offered a fairly embarrassed, "Sorry".  
Peter shrugged. "Happens," he said in a friendly, assuring tone, but he couldn't take the smile off his face, it was a sort of delirium he'd found himself in. Carl concealed a fairly giddy look of his own, and then off he went again, Peter watching with laser focus as his cock slid down into that plump mouth, vanishing by the inch.

This time there'd be no further interruptions. Peter couldn't think any more after that, about anything. He was hitting his peak and he wanted to be all the way inside Carl, inside his mouth, his body, inside him completely. He sat all the way up, grabbed hold of Carl's head in his lap, and held him there, thrusting carefully between his lips, his toes dragging along the carpet.

In response, Carl playfully smacked Peter's hand off his head and bore down, running this mouth firmly and deeply over Peter's cock, feeling a shudder rising in Peter's body, sensing the end near. Peter couldn’t stop himself – he tried it again, hands back on Carl's head, gripping his hair, his torso rising up to meet Carl's face for a few brief strokes. That was it – he was done for. He tapped Carl hard on the shoulder but nothing stopped. Not the slide of Carl's mouth, not the laps of Carl's tongue, all of it was still in frantic motion.

For a second, Carl considered stopping there and ending things in a more traditional way for the two of them - but he figured, he was in it, and he may as well be in it all the way. Peter surrendered - he fell all the way back, stretched out across the bed, arms extended, still holding on. A moan of distinctly heightened pleasure rang out as he pulled Carl down by the neck towards him, down deep as he could go, and came so violently hard, in his throat, his mouth, fingers tangled in his hair, yanking a little.

Carl felt it happen seconds before it did - the thrilling twitch of Peter's cock in his throat, the wind-tunnel lull of silence before the howl rang out, the eye of the storm. And then a flood of warmth against his throat, propelled around his mouth and the sides of his tongue, the distinctly erotic difficulty of swallowing while Peter's cock was still wedged deep between his lips.

Peter wanted to languish in the sensation of pumping slowly into Carl's mouth for as long as he could, just a few more precious moments. He wasn't sure how Carl was going to react to any of this, but he was warring against his very acute enjoyment turning dim. He wanted to hold onto it. Mercifully Carl let him linger, slid his lips loosely up and down in ticklish strokes, listening to the gasps and murmurs still raining down from Peter above him. He let Peter linger long enough to sense his growing softness against his tongue, finding that itself an enticing sensation, before he finally took his mouth away altogether. 

Carl sat back on his heels, then stood, naked and slim and pale in the lovely gold light, and the way Peter’s eyes ran over him, consuming with hungry delight, such charm, made Carl feel, for the first time, far more flattered, more loved, than shy. It was just a glance, but it distinctly smacked of something not at all frightening – a little bit of untainted joy.

Peter scooted across the bed to make room for Carl beside him, and when Carl pulled up the covers Peter shuffled close beside him, this thigh laying against Carl’s thigh, their arms touching. They looked at one another then, and as soon as they did, Peter knew everything was alright. Carl looked startled, but in a smug way, and when Peter smiled at him shyly, barely able to contain the grin that was growing of it's own accord, Carl shook his head and rolled his eyes like it was all wonderfully ridiculous.

"I thought you were coming up," Peter said carefully, after a moment, sounding both nervous and vindicated.  
"Oh well, I didn’t," was all Carl said in reply.  
It wasn't enough of a response – and he needed to know, well, everything.  
Peter waited a beat, then asked: "Was it horrible?"  
Carl sniffed with amusement. Always so dramatic, he thought.  
"It wasn't horrible," he said, and shut down the question by leaning over the bed, looking around on the floor for his last cigarette.

Peter still needed more. He didn't know what to ask, but to him, this was a very big deal, and he needed to see inside it.  
He rambled on: "Well, it's just that... well you've never seemed to want to... and then last night, you didn’t, so… "  
Peter trailed off as Carl came back up with a cigarette and lighter in hand. He'd lit it before he realised Peter was looking at him expectantly, still wanting an answer.

"Can I be frank," Carl said between drags. Peter snatched the cigarette and had a suck on it himself.  
"You be Frank and I'll be Ginger," Peter joked nervously in a silly accent, the cigarette between his teeth.  
God, Carl was going to say something awful wasn't he, Peter wondered.  
Carl rolled his eyes yet again.  
He sighed, paused, and gave Peter another inch.  
"If I'm honest, I've always thought it might... I don't know, make me feel like less of a man I guess," he said, with a touch of shame, and nervously reached for his ciggie back.  
"Makes me feel like more of one," Peter replied, taking a drag and returning it. "You're never more powerful than when you've got someone's cock between your teeth".  
Carl snorted, a big laughing huff of a snort and rolled on top of him, giving Peter's swollen lips a fast, ashy kiss that quickly became deeper.

Carl came up, finished his cigarette, dropping it in his teacup by the bed. Then he rolled back on top of Peter, back into that kiss. Peter let it go on for only a short time before he pulled his lips away. He smiled an adorably wicked smile - it was all  
so charming, so playful, and answers to difficult questions stopped mattering. 

Carl's lips were back on his, then on his shoulder, along his neck, and it occurred to Peter that they were still in the process of making love. Still naked, still touching, still kissing, and when, after several minutes of those little nibbles and caresses, Peter's hand travelled down Carl's stomach to run his fingers along his cock, he was very much hard, emitting a small groan as Peter's fingers moved measuredly over its thickness.

Carl broke their kiss and looked Peter hard in the eye, with such a steely eroticism that it made Peter feel weak.  
"Go on," he said, motioning for Peter to turn over. He did so merrily, bouncing round onto his stomach and spreading his body across the bed in the same sort of unguarded surrender that often left Carl feeling so fond of him.  
It was seconds between Carl straddling Peter’s thighs and the delicious stab of Carl’s cock working its way inside him.  
“Oh, do we need…” Carl began wondering aloud, though he was already a fair way in.  
“No,” Peter answered breathily, “Still wet”.  
Those words hit Carl with a thud – it was roughly the filthiest, sexiest thing he’d ever heard anyone say.  
His response was slamming inside Peter in a single, hard and determined stroke, to which Peter responded with a gasp, followed immediately by a feverish groan. 

Carl collected Peter in his arms, holding him around the chest, his mouth against his neck, and proceeded to treat him to him a very short, but very vigorous session of lovemaking.

Peter lay in his arms, moaning at rhythmic intervals, Carl moving against him so swiftly, effortlessly, kissing his neck over and over, until Peter craned his own back to catch his lips, and so they kissed and kissed until Carl planted his face into the back of Peter's neck, took hold of his hips, and slammed into him for one very fluid minute before he gasped in his ear, a hot, billowing gasp, blowing up strands of Peter’s hair, and came a second time.

It was all over in a flash but Peter didn't care at all. As Carl pulled out of him and curled his arms back around his chest, the full weight of his body crushing Peter's body down into the mattress, his sweaty kisses on Peter's cheek, Peter was so astonishingly happy that he was genuinely scared he’d never feel exactly this happy ever again.

With a groan Carl rolled off him lazily, and arranged them both under the duvet. Peter came straight over and lay his head down on Carl’s chest, staring up at him looking as smitten as Carl had ever seen anyone look, let alone anyone looking at him. Carl was touched, he found, he just felt quite good, if he was honest, and proud of himself, in some ways, too, because it was him making Peter feel this way, and look at him this way. What else it meant was a worry for another time. 

“I’m out of cigarettes,” Carl said after a beat, sounding defeated despite his elation. He was genuinely quite bereaved to not be able to have a ciggie right at this minute.  
“You smoke too much,” Peter said, followed rather comically by a guttural cough of his own.  
“But hold on…” Peter added, and turned to dig around in his bedside drawer.  
“There you go!” he announced, holding up three-quarters of a stale cigarette that might have come with those drawers when they found them on the street.  
Carl shrugged, took it, and lit it.  
“You can have that all to yourself,” Peter told him jovially.  
“Tastes terrible,” Carl replied, inhaling.  
Peter frowned.  
“But thank you,” Carl added, to which Peter smiled like it was the only thing Carl had actually said. Peter was too cheerful to be easily shaken, he was, in fact, in complete bliss, and he planned to bask in it. 

They did just that, languishing in bed for another hour, chatting about nothing in particular, laughing quite a lot more than was usual even for them. All the while, there as something evolving under the surface of their casual contentment which they could both feel: a spring breeze, a sunny day, one those clichés that feel immensely true when two people are falling in love.

Eventually Carl got ready for work – Peter felt gratified that he didn’t shower first, and though admittedly it was probably just laziness and hangover, he nonetheless furtively romanticised Carl’s general lack of cleanliness as an act of love. 

Peter moved himself to the couch, duvet and all, for a long evening of television staring and dreaming of what he’d like to eat if he had two pennies to rub together. Carl emerged from his room - which lately he truly only used as a cupboard - dressed in his uniform, trying to hide that he felt as giddy as Peter still looked.  
“Right, I’m off,” Carl announced, and stood there, not really wanting to go.  
Peter didn’t argue that Carl should bunk off work like he often did – he thought it was probably futile – but Carl might have been convinced had Peter, this time, cried and thrashed about it hard enough. But he didn’t.  
“Are you coming back later?” Peter asked carefully. It was still a tenuous issue, even after the joy of the day.  
Carl knew he was. He was broke, and he could go out with his friends and sponge drinks and ciggies and maybe find someone to kiss if he was lucky. 

Or, he could beg a few coins from his co-workers and buy some nasty wine, bring it back here, cuddle up with Peter, and feel as light-headedly blissful as he did now through until tomorrow.  
“Round midnight,” Carl confirmed. “Will you be awake?”  
Peter nodded enthusiastically, bright-eyed and smiling.  
Carl smiled too, and he left, sliding down the street on the back of that smile. 

The second Carl stepped out the door, Peter proceeded to spend the entire night being driven mad by anticipation. Just endlessly waiting for Carl, unable to concentrate on anything but lying on the couch and counting minutes. Every hour, on the hour, he sent Carl another whining text message about how hungry and hungover and lonely he was, how desperate he was for a smoke of a Benson and Hedges, how much he needed a hug. Carl saw none of the texts until after his shift, at which point he’d schemed throughout the evening to bring them both back supplies. He felt more like Peter doing it, like he was slowly becoming Peter, with his natural street urchin skillset – as he begged for a pound or two a piece from various co-workers until he had ten, scrounged up cigarettes from punters milling outside at intermission until he had a dozen, as he doubled his bounty by buying one bottle of wine and stealing a second one – buy one, get one free, he laughed to himself. 

He stopped at the chippy down the road from their flat to collect them some dinner and when he finally came up the stairs and opened the door, all his booty in bags and under his arms, Peter was sitting up on the couch with dog-like anticipation, on the verge of hysteria.  
“Why didn’t you answer any of my messages!” Peter howled.  
“Don’t have any credit,” Carl answered. “And I didn’t see them till after work”.  
Peter focused on the various parcels and goodies in Carl’s hands.  
“What have you got?” he asked, already salivating.  
“Everything,” Carl said proudly, unloading the wine, a parcel of fish and chips, a few chocolate bars he’d nicked from the concession stand at the theatre, and lastly, slightly bent cigarettes of various different brands from his pockets.  
Peter looked down at it all, looked up at Carl, and beamed.  
“Where’d you get all that?” he asked, utterly captivated.  
“You inspired me,” Carl said, patting Peter on the head.  
Peter’s sideways smile engulfed his face, and he joined Carl in tearing things open and consuming food, wine and tobacco at violent speed. 

Once he’d actually eaten, and was on his way to being properly tipsy, Peter found sitting on the couch watching TV – which he’d rued all night - to be the most enjoyable of pastimes. With Carl cuddled in next to him under the duvet, he felt a sense of calm he’d never till then experienced. He didn’t know if Carl was feeling the same calm, the same peace, laying there on his shoulder, making fun of cheesy advertisements. But he hoped so.


	13. Chapter 13

They spent a few days doing nothing much, Carl didn’t have to work, they were broke, and a general malaise crept in - though they did manage a few fruitful song-writing sessions.  
  
What pennies they scraped up selling off a few old records were spent largely on booze, and day-drinking sessions left them woozy and hungover by night time, so those same few days ended with little more than a few tired snogs and one round of sleepy fondling.  
  
Peter wasn’t overly bothered by the slowdown in the physicality, he enjoyed the time they spent together, ceaselessly, literally round the clock. They’d been in a place of easy harmony that felt like an immense bubble was being built around them – cosy and slow and mutual. And he told himself he could be patient – he didn’t want to push anything and undo all that mingling of souls that’d been brewing, tangling them together, gently on its own.  
  
Carl too was happy enough with their cuddles and kisses and the general lack of confusion those things caused these days. It just seemed nice, and comforting, and although he didn’t readily let himself see it that way, nor acknowledge their natural evolution, affection on that level had largely ceased to trouble him. It was just a kiss, it was just a cuddle, and Carl found it as soothing as Peter did to curl up at the end of a long, soused day and have someone to he loved to hold onto. How good it felt chipped down the resistance of how scary it felt, slowly, like a rolling ocean, and now this was the new shore they stood on, together.  
  
There was however a fresh encroaching terror. Ever since Peter had drunkenly mentioned, well… swapping things around, so to speak, the idea had floated around in Carl’s head endlessly, intrusively, almost. He was increasingly having daydreams about what it might be like, and he’d grown paranoid that he couldn’t trust himself not to end up doing something he might - if not regret, then at least struggle to process.  
  
After several days of successfully pushing it off to the side of his consciousness, the concept rose vividly, inextinguishably in Carl’s mind during an uneventful session of self-pleasure he’d engaged in while Peter slept beside him. He’d woken up well ahead of him, tired and hungover, and thought it would be a way to quietly pass the time and perhaps make him feel slightly less rubbish.  
  
And there it was, springing to life, a lurid fantasy appearing with a burst of adrenaline and a groan of pleasure, and he'd stopped, horrified at himself, terrified of engaging in that untested concept even in his most private moments, in his own mind. He glanced over at Peter, eyed him deeply, genuinely concerned Peter might somehow, even in his sleep, figure out what had just transpired in Carl’s thoughts.  
  
Peter was lately reading Carl’s mind with terrifying accuracy, and likewise, Carl was starting to find it overly easy to read between all of Peter’s colourful and embellished lines. But clearly that connection wasn’t entirely extended to sleep - Peter just carried on snoring softly and adorably, so Carl forced himself up to have a shower. Cleanse off the thoughts, he decided.

Besides it was a monumental day – they were both getting paid after suffering through so many days of abject poverty, and it was with impatience that Carl, showered and secretly ritually cleansed from his filthy fantasies, shook Peter awake to get on with spending it.  
  
They were both jubilant. Peter immediately suggested a lavish high tea and champagne to celebrate, and although he ultimately thought it was a terrible idea that would lead to another stretch of starvation between paycheques, Carl readily agreed.  
  
They dressed up for the occasion - their best suits and hats, Peter even dug up a stately cane - and strolled into the afternoon feeling grand and emboldened.  
  
Overpriced cucumber sandwiches and chinking glasses of bubbles promptly devoured, their luxury escapade devolved into sitting in an alleyway gutter and inhaling bottles of mid-priced wine. By early evening the pair of them were merrily drunk.  
  
“Let’s go out!” Carl suggested brightly, finishing the last sip from his bottle and getting to his feet. He excitedly reached out his hand for Peter to do the same, keen for forward momentum.  
  
Peter took it, and got up, but with a frown. He held onto that hand longer than he knew Carl would have wanted, and stood opposite him, looking suddenly and very demonstrably forlorn, like the entirety of his merriment had been blown out of him by an errant gust of wind.  
  
Carl gently shook his hand free from Peter’s clinging fingers. “Why not?” he asked carefully, because he knew, “no” was the answer Peter’s face was giving to his question. Not to mention Peter had begun melting downward onto his cane like a silent movie heroine in the midst of a depression.  
  
“I don’t want to see a bunch of people,” Peter complained, but he said it as if it was a question. He was hoping against hope that when Carl suggested they’d go out, he meant just them, together, even though he understood implicitly that wasn’t in fact his meaning.  
  
“We need to see other people. We can’t always be locked inside that bloody flat on top of each other,” Carl replied, and as soon as he said it they both flinched. It hadn’t come out of his mouth the way he wanted at all, and now he’d implied something he didn’t mean to. Or maybe he did, in a way. But it was said now, and he couldn’t undo it, and Peter’s expression had gone from displeasure to twisting misery. A brawl felt imminent.   
  
“You go, then, abandon me. Like you always do,” Peter whined in such an abrupt, hair-pulling pitch that Carl momentarily had the urge to just, slap him. It was partly the alcohol - they were both drunker than they thought - and partly the crushing inevitably of this conflict, that even in the microseconds it took for Carl to formulate the suggestion that they go out and see their friends, he knew deep down was coming. It was unfair, and if Peter was going to try and keep him caged he was going to lose. Right there in the gutter, his shoes crushing damp, rotting leaves beneath them, Peter was going to get left.  
  
“You can come with me or you can stay here,” Carl replied, with such conviction that Peter understood his options were just two - go with him, and watch him try to snog girls all night and talk rubbish with his inane friends while endlessly waiting in a state of squirming discomfort for Carl to finally come home with him, or, fight in the street for a good half hour over it, then go home alone, and cry, then spend till dawn jumping at every sound in the hopes that it’s Carl running home to him to beg forgiveness. He genuinely didn’t know which of the two options was less horrible.  
  
Carl watched Peter make his Sophie’s choice and something strange happened - he felt less like he was fighting his way out of a prison and more like he was being unnecessarily harsh. They’d gone out together loads of times. Before all this... business started, Peter was far keener for a night on the tiles. He’d always been ill at ease with big social shindigs but he’d come along often and had fun at them regardless. Maybe all he needed was to feel encouraged, and welcome.  
  
“Look,” Carl began, putting his hands on Peter’s shoulders to soothe him, direct him, “I really do fancy a night out, but I’d much rather you come with me”. Once he said it, Carl found that he meant it. Peter’s tense stance softened a tad, like a thin wave of calm travelled through Carl’s clinging fingers and down the expanse of his long body.  
  
Peter went to say several things, most of them negative. But he stopped himself.  
“Where’d you wanna go?” he asked instead.  
Carl took a second to respond.  
“There’s a house party,” he started, carefully keeping his hands on Peter’s shoulders, keeping the two of them connected.  
“Yeah I know,” Peter replied defensively. “They invited me too, you know”.  
Carl snorted. “Of course they did,” he said, bemused at Peter indignant snark.  
“Do you want to go?” Carl asked, as warmly as he could. Still holding on. Still trying.  
“Yeah alright,” Peter mumbled, and with that, Carl threw a celebratory arm around Peter’s shoulder.  
“Drinks first,” Carl declared, and Peter smiled at him, smiled like he believed their day together was continuing, not being thrown through a blender. 

Even if felt he was mostly forcing that smile, at least he’d fallen into the flow of the tide instead of trying to exhaustedly fight it. Peter didn’t know what possessed him really because nothing had changed - nothing except Carl offering him the sense that maybe they’d still be in it together, even in an ocean of bodies that would conspire to push them apart.  
  
Further drinks consumed, they eventually made their way to the party, at that point so drunk that even Peter felt up for some hilarity. In the pit of his stomach was a bitterness, a dull ache of dark bile, and he knew very well it would rise at some point. But for now, he was trollied and merry, poking people and lifting skirts with his cane - a slapstick routine that caused enough amusement to provide him with a much-needed spotlight among various roving gangs of girls and friends.  
  
It helped that Carl remained by Peter’s side, or close to it, for a good portion of the evening, whispering conspiratorially in his ear periodically, boozy breath hot and alluring, various quips and comments and gossips running at rapid speed once they’d come across someone kind enough to give them both a few bumps of coke.

Once the night crushed in with the kind of strangeness a room full of friends and strangers brings, and things became far blurrier and more chaotic, they drifted apart for longer and longer periods. But Carl would push his way through the forest of swaying humans, back to Peter’s side, sometimes after catching his eye, sometimes instinctively, the moment Peter started anxiously looking around the room for him – as if there was a tether of electricity biding them, the same tether that had been established in the alleyway, when Carl laid his hands on Peter’s shoulders and tried to promise that he wouldn’t lose him.  
  
It lasted the night, and into the small hours of the morning, a trail burning into the carpet between them, until Peter forgot himself and his space and even Carl for a time, losing himself in a conversation with trio of slurring English students that seemed immensely important when driven by several more sniffs of powder and countless more drinks. It took him a long time to notice the cold absence of Carl beside him, the chill of that absence, the ghost of it, and the dawning realisation that it had been a long time since he’d last seen him, and he could not see him now.  
  
Even in his bleary, slippery state, Peter felt a stab of panic. He excused himself, handing someone his cane, as if it was going to weigh him down, and stumbled about the house, and then the yard, first just looking for Carl, and then asking for him. It couldn’t have been long, but he felt the mounting hysteria that a child feels losing their mother in a supermarket. Two rounds of the house and yard and he had to accept that Carl wasn’t in the perimeter, so he made his way out the front door, grabbing for his phone to call him.  
  
Peter had tumbled out into the street and began dialling when he noticed, with rapidly defrosting relief, that Carl was looking right at him. The relief lasted seconds – Carl had a lit cigarette in one hand, a mousy little girl in the other, and it was clear Peter had just interrupted a snog energetic enough to leave a significant amount of lipstick over the entirety of Carl’s mouth.  
  
It might have been the drink, the drugs, the fact that he never wanted to go in the first place, the fact that he’d just spent twenty minutes circling around looking for stupid fucking Carl, or the fact that whatever promise of togetherness Carl had made him had been eroded by the natural rot of a party, or all of it at once – but Peter felt immediately, uncontrollably angry.  
  
“Where have you been?” he near to shouted, which Carl looked startled by, even if he should have known it was coming.  
“Just out here,” Carl snapped back.  
“I was looking for you!” Peter howled back, in a snivelling way that only made Carl want to be rid of him, and fast.

Carl would have understood if he was more sober, if he was in the same mood he’d been in the alley, if he hadn’t already spent so many hours of the night pacifying this exact melodrama, labouring over it, and most of all, if he wasn’t now having to fight to do something perfectly normal like leave his friend at the other side of a party for ten fucking minutes to have a meaningless little snog with some bird. But he was annoyed, and he wasn’t in control of his senses.

“What do you want?” Carl snapped, as cruelly as he possibly could have.  
Peter’s face fell, properly fell, in a manner that could have been described as cartoonish. And then he was desperate.  
“I want to go home,” he said, not as a statement, as a demand. He eyed Carl’s arm, still around the girl, who frankly looked scared. She’d found herself in the middle of an amount of vehemence and passion that was incomprehensible to an outsider.  
“Then go home,” Carl said dismissively – or at least he tried to sound dismissive, because even as far out of himself as he was, he heard his own voice wobble. He didn’t want to hurt Peter, not at all, he never wanted that. But he also wanted to finish what he started at an ordinary house party at four in bloody the morning, like any other lad his age would.

“Come with me,” Peter pleaded, properly pleaded, his eyes wide and red and unashamedly tearing up.  
Carl tried to compromise, just to get Peter to go, just to end this painful exchange. “I’ll be there soon,” Carl said, far more gently. “Just go, I’ll catch up”.  
“Carl, I want to go,” Peter was blubbering now, “Please, please, let’s go. I want to go”.  
  
Carl finally took his arm off the girl and placed his hands on Peter’s shoulders. It was worth a second try. Peter leaned into those hands, placed weight on them, tried to convince Carl to take him away, to carry the exhausted weight of just how unhappy he was in this moment.  
Carl looked Peter in the eyes, cheeks streaked with drunken tears, and smiled at him.  
“Stop being silly pigman,” he told him, “Go have a sleep, I’ll be there soon, I promise”.

Peter sucked back his tears, sniffled back his dribbling nose, and gave up. All that could happen now, if he kept pushing, is that they’d fight. It was tempting – if they screamed at one another in the street, it would break the momentum of whatever Carl had going here with this bird, and they probably would go home, angrily, together, and then there would be days of anger, and then Carl would feel trapped, and then there would be retribution, and then he’d be gone for days and days again and everything they’d built so far would fall apart anew.  
  
No, he wouldn’t do that. He’d go home, and he’d wait. It would be awful tonight, but only tonight, and then Carl would be back. 

To Carl’s immense surprise, Peter folded.  
“I’ll see you later then,” he said, nodding at the pavement between Carl’s outstretched arms, sniffling, and it was about the saddest thing that Carl had ever heard. But he would not buckle.  
  
Carl pulled Peter into his chest for a quick hug, and Peter let him, arms limp, head on Carl’s shoulder. He came up again, looked Carl hard in the eyes, and said, “There’s lipstick all over your face”. Carl’s hand rose up quickly to wipe his mouth, and as he did Peter got loose from his arms. He walked backward for several feet, glaring, before he turned on his heel, and stormed off down the road.  
  
Trying not to look as shaken and upset as he felt, Carl turned his attention immediately back to the poor girl who had just witnessed this entire theatrical production free of charge. She looked rattled, too, and thought she’d best lighten the mood.  
“That your boyfriend or something?” she said with a dry laugh.  
Carl winced, and she saw him wince.  
“I’m sorry, I was just joke…” she started, but Carl interjected with a forced smile.  
“He’s just battered, he’ll be alright,” he said, as much to himself as to his guest.  
“Do you want to maybe... go back to mine?” the girl asked, and Carl nodded, with a wry smile this time that was far more genuine.  
“One more drink and we’ll go,” he said, pretending so convincingly he didn’t feel guilty that he almost, almost didn’t.  
  
Peter didn’t wait up for Carl, as he imagined, the whole way home, that he would. Wait through to the sunrise to see if Carl kept his promise about following him home shortly after. Wait and wait till there was a creak on the stairs and molten relief in his chest. But it took a good hour to walk home, and by the time he’d gotten up the stairs he was on the verge of crawling. And so Peter fell into bed fully clothed, sobbed dramatically but briefly, then slept like the dead.  
  
That’s how Carl found him, some hours into what was a now a very grey morning: snoring at alarming volume, asleep on top of the covers in his suit – even had his shoes on, Carl though with amusement. Carl, swaying and generally dishevelled, watched him a moment, leaning on Peter’s cane – he’d retrieved it from a pair of louts at the party who’d been using it as a cricket bat, smacking a steady stream of empty cans around the backyard.  
  
Carl sniggered to himself at the sprawling sight before him, then poked Peter with the cane, right in his soft belly, right where a peek of pale skin emerged from between two undone buttons on his shirt. Peter jumped up, heart pounding, head pounding, the shock of a prank awakening far too much for the depth of his hangover.  
  
“Fuck off!” he yelped, and threw himself back down on the mattress. Then he remembered. Carl was gone, and now Carl was home.  
Peter turned slowly around and regarded Carl through swollen slits for eyes.  
“What time is it?” he asked.  
Carl looked befuddled, tossed the cane aside and fished his phone out to have a look.  
“Nine past eleven,” he answered.  
“In the morning?” Peter asked.  
Carl laughed, and sat down on the mattress to take off his shoes.  
“It’s going to rain,” Carl told him, still audibly slurring. “Good day for sleeping” he added.  
Peter felt a smile crawl across his lips, but he kept a lid on it. He watched Carl, one eye open, as he undressed, tipping about while getting out of his jeans and jacket, finally pulling up one end of the covers when he was down to his vest and boxers.

Carl tugged at the deadweight that was Peter’s clothed form on top of the duvet before it occurred to him Peter was going to have to move.  
“Are you going to sleep like that?” he asked.  
Peter groaned, and with immense effort, got himself up to pull his clothes off, with all the energy of a man swimming in wet concrete. But he felt motivated, just by the knowledge that Carl was home, Carl was here, Carl had gotten into his bed just like the day before and the day before that, and now they were going to cuddle up and sleep like nothing had happened.  
  
There would be other feelings to tackle, anger and jealousy and hurt, when they woke, properly, sober and having to untangle the knot of woe they’d made in the night. 

But now Peter was sidling up against Carl’s warm body, and Carl was curling back against him with a tired purr, his back lined up along Peter’s belly, Peter’s arm sliding around Carl’s waist, and finally, Carl’s hand resting on Peter’s forearm, tenderly holding on. The air was a thick, humid cocktail of steamy ethanol around them, but they slept.

It was approaching evening when Carl finally woke. He knew it was late because it was dark enough that he had to turn the lamp on. He was sick as a dog, nauseous, dehydrated and in pain all over. Unhelpfully he was also immensely, immensely randy, and twice as unhelpfully, Peter was already up. He could hear him strumming away at the song they’d last worked on from the lounge. He felt bloody awful. He needed to drink some water, he needed to piss, and he needed to get on top of someone as soon as he’d done both those things. But first he had to process exactly what had gone on. 

He’d sent Peter home - which he was most definitely going to pay for shortly - and then he recalled he’d gone back inside the party with a bird on his arm whose name he could no longer recall, if he’d ever learned it in the first place. It transpired that she lived too far away for him to want to follow her home, he remembered, and aside from the inconvenience of multiple forms of public transport to get back from her flat, Carl had drunkenly surmised that he’d best go home to Peter as soon as he could, because he’d promised. 

But house party nature had taken it’s course and shortly after negotiations to make an exit together broke down, he and the lass found an empty bedroom in which to ungraciously shag in. Carl felt it was precisely what he needed. He probably went out with the intention of procuring exactly that, if he could, whether he initially admitted it to himself or not. 

But now he wondered why he didn’t admit that was his plan, even if in the form of a distant hope. The entire reason he and Peter used to stalk out drunkenly into the night together was to get a hold of some girl, pretty much any girl who’d have them. And now Carl couldn’t even say to him that he wanted to do that, because, it dawned on him, he knew Peter would be jealous. And not just jealous that Carl had got off with someone and he hadn’t, though probably that too. He’d be jealous over Carl being with someone else, and thinking that out loud to himself, even though he’d known it was true long before he formed the conscious thought, made Carl break out in a cold sweat that was as much to do with anxiety as his wretched hangover. How the fuck were they going to handle that, if every night out was going to end in tears and recriminations as if Carl was... cheating on him. God, he didn’t even want to let that concept settle into his head. But there it was. 

And then Carl wondered, most uncomfortably, if he’d feel the same if it had been the other way round. If Peter had sent him off home while he busied himself with some girl. He told himself that he wouldn’t, he’d be glad for Peter and it would probably do him some good. In fact he really should encourage it, if only to dissipate some of Peter’s clinginess. But then, Peter didn’t really have hook ups. Peter had romances. Any girl who stayed a night would likely end up staying a month, at the flat, too, and that bothered Carl for entirely pragmatic reasons, he told himself. It wasn’t jealousy, as such. It was a normal response to a nuisance. 

And then of course the most important question. It had been a little too long since Carl had last taken someone to bed, he thought to himself. No, not someone, a girl, he reminded himself with a grimace. And he’d wanted to, far more than he’d admitted, and certainly far more than he’d discussed. There was a little part of him that worried if he hadn’t - lost the taste for it, so to speak. He found of course he hadn’t. It really was quite like riding a bike. He understood it, he’d already worked through most of the awkwardness of the mechanics in the years prior and what remained was just the awkwardness of a new body and a new person to navigate. Everything felt as it should - gratifying, pleasurable and that little bit ego inflating. Or quite a lot of the latter, in fact. 

If he really let himself think about it, he noted there wasn’t an immense difference in how anything felt, really, or how he felt, physically anyway. He may have expected it all to be fluffier and softer and warmer with a girl, sweeter, more affectionate, somehow, but that wasn’t true. He’d experienced immense moments of tenderness in Peter’s arms, of softness and vulnerability. He didn’t markedly feel stronger or more in charge or more manly or any of the things he expected to feel. He might have even wanted to feel that way, but it wasn’t entirely forthcoming. 

And if he let himself, really, really let himself think it, Carl knew there was only one thing - other than crude machinery- that really differed between the two experiences, now that he had the benefit of a fairly direct comparison. And that was simply, quite simply, that he had no real feelings for the girl he’d taken to bed last night. It was like a silly, erotic game they’d played, connections floating only on the surface. His connection to Peter on the other hand, was so big, so vast, so suffocatingly overwhelming, that sex took on a gravity that he might have before then thought was fictional. 

If he was brutally honest with himself, if his still fuzzy mind let him, with it’s wilted inhibitions left over from the night before, as he lay in Peter’s bed, that lovely strumming in the next room now accompanied by a hummed melody, he’d admit that while physically it didn’t make much difference - he liked it all and he’d like to have more of it all - emotionally, there was no comparison. He realised he’d never made love with anyone but Peter, because he’d never loved anyone but him. 

It was right then that Carl also realised that he was still quite drunk. 

That served the dual purpose of allowing him to quickly dismiss most of the terrifyingly deep thoughts he’d allowed to flow about untethered as the mere ramblings of a pickled mind, and the adequate sedation not to have a full blown panic attack over the fact that he’d had them at all. 

With that, Carl got himself out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom like a man lost in a desert. He hunched over most of the way, reviving himself after a slash and about a litre of water drunk straight from the tap, plus some splashed on his face, which he was in the process of towelling off when Peter appeared at the door, dressed inexplicably in nothing but a pair of bloomers and one of Carl’s jumpers. 

“Where’d that come from?” Carl asked him, gesturing at his outfit.  
“Your wardrobe,” Peter answered.  
“Not the jumper,” Carl tisked, “the bloody pants”.  
“Oh,” Peter said, looking down at what was very distinctly a pair of pouffy stain women’s underwear enrobed around his bare legs as if it was the first time he’d seen them. “Don’t know. They were behind the sofa. But they’re quite comfortable”.  
Carl decided he was far too hungover to investigate the origin of the mystery panties, though he was certain “behind the sofa” wasn’t it. At least they looked clean. 

Casting a wobbly glare over Peter’s pouting lips and bed-tousled hair and easily removable clothing, Carl remembered at once how deliriously randy he’d woken up, which frankly hadn’t really dissipated. There was something about having a random shag the night before that very badly made you want another one in the morning. Though robbed of that opportunity by the scourge of public transport and the roadside weeping of one very dramatic Peter, Carl felt it only fair that he should get the little gremlin in bed post haste. Even if it meant peeling him out of a pair of Queen Victoria’s knickers. 

Of course, he’d have to asses the damage first.  
“I’m going back to bed,” Carl started before Peter interrupted, most scandalised, and gasped at him, “It’s six o’clock in the evening!”  
As if Peter hadn’t been known to sleep that late himself, Carl thought. But Peter was only bothered because he finally had Carl awake to torture endlessly over abandoning him, by way of guilt trip rather than anger, since the latter would work against him.  
“Only went down at bloody lunch time,” Carl defended himself, as he limped along the hall. Though his plan wasn’t to sleep anyway.  
He made it the rest of the way to Peter’s bed, rolled in clumsily, and patted the space beside him.  
“Come lie down with me,” Carl said.  
He looked Peter square in the eye in a come-hither fashion that Peter most definitely wasn’t accustomed to.  
He was momentarily taken aback.  
“Are you still drunk?” Peter asked.  
“Yes, I think so,” Carl answered, in such deadpan that it made Peter properly laugh.  
Carl smiled at him, then Peter frowned, so Carl frowned. 

“You know I’m cross with you,” Peter insisted.  
But he was already lingering by the edge of the bed in a coquettish fashion that, given his outfit, looked immensely comical.  
“Fight with me later,” Carl said impatiently. “Come get in bed.”  
“Why,” Peter asked, in something between a sulk and a snap. “For comparison?”  
Carl felt surprised, again, but how oddly perceptive Peter had become where he was concerned. That he’d been making a comparison since he woke now felt transparent, but less strange as a result. 

Peter wouldn’t have said anything of the sort if he didn’t get the sense that Carl’s inhibitions were still down. But it was also a way of finding out what Carl had done the night before without having to ask him. Peter knew, instinctively, and logically, what had gone on. For a start, Carl looked entirely like he’d been shagging. He still had vague traces lipstick on his neck. His hair was knotted up the way it only got when he’d been all sweaty and laid on it before it’d dried again. And his bloody vest was on inside out, which it wasn’t when he’d left home. On top of that, in some weird, animalistic way, Peter could just smell it on him. Like some other dog had peed his very pretty fence. 

Anyway, Carl ignored the question, and held out his hand.  
Peter took it, but didn’t get in, not yet.  
“You’re covered in fuck knows what, it’s disgusting,” Peter argued, but weakly.  
“Oh bugger off,” Carl replied, and yanked him down by the arm, right on onto the bed, right top of him.  
“You don’t care,” Carl added, that fiery alcohol breath in Peter’s face, in a surly manner that could only be described as instantly boner inducing. 

Though it was also Peter’s answer regarding Carl’s nocturnal transgressions.  
Peter emitted a small, sad sound, by way of mourning, followed by an astonishingly quick recovery when it dawned on him that here was his redemption, ready and very willing, apparently, to be reclaimed. 

Peter pouted, but he scrambled the rest of the way atop Carl’s body, lay himself between his thighs, and ran his eyes over his face, with such cheering warmth, Carl thought. He’d seen and noted the way Peter looked at him many times, with that rolling, marzipan affection, but right now, knowing he was grimy and sallow and only a few hours past having been fairly unkind, that Peter was still looking at him that way, perhaps even more so than usual, Carl found it plucked hard at some string inside him that momentarily bled. He felt adored, even when he was unworthy. 

He collected Peter’s face in his hands and pulled him into a kiss, one that didn’t spend time building itself up - they were just properly kissing, concentrated and deep, with the gnarled energy of a feast of consumption that was already promised to follow. 

Carl hooked his fingers into the edges of Peter’s jumper and hoisted it up, Peter leaning forward to let him get it all the way off, before Carl stripped off his own vest. Peter lay back down upon him immediately, chest to chest, so eager to meet their skin in this searing way after so many days of polite embraces in the place of the burning, sweaty intimacy he now realised he’d sorely missed. 

They latched back onto each other’s mouths, arms clinging around one another, bellies pressed together, mutual hardness evident, an unashamed grind starting up when their crotches lined up and connected. Peter bore down on the body beneath him without restraint, wanting and openly so, as a quick groan hummed from between Carl’s lips, against Peter’s tongue. 

Carl’s hands wandered down off Peter’s back and onto the band of his - whatever these pants were, and began working his way inside them when he stopped, breaking their kiss.  
“Can you take these off, I feel like a Victorian pervert messing about with them,” Carl complained.  
Peter laughed, helplessly loud, and swooped down to give Carl a festive smooch before he climbed off him and rolled around getting them off.  
Carl took the opportunity to do the same, ridding himself of his underwear and laying in wait for mere seconds before Peter returned to him, casting a lustful eye over his naked form before he smothered his body back upon him. 

Carl shot Peter back an equally saucy glare, collected him in his arms and spun the both of them over, placing Peter underneath him. Peter felt winded by that abrupt action, from the sheer excitement of Carl’s enthusiasm, coupled with the weight of that beautiful body pressing him down into the mattress. 

He really didn’t want to mess about any longer, he just wanted to make love, he just wanted Carl inside him, immediately, and he didn’t want to do another single thing that would slow that down. Peter hastily wound arms around Carl’s waist, hoisted his legs up onto Carl’s hips and pulled him down, even closer, along with an needy grind of his own hips, his cock sliding along Carl’s equally aggressive erection and making Carl emit one of his gorgeous clipped gasps. 

Carl clearly didn’t want to delay either because the next thing he did was grapple for their old Vaseline tub, which had been sitting by the bed, conspicuous and unused, for a week. He hovered back with it in hand to see Peter’s eyes, shiny with anticipation and so much desire that it was intoxicating. That’s what he’d missed elsewhere - that stare of helpless want, and that assurance that he was so completely, urgently wanted. 

Peter hadn’t even let go to allow Carl to reach across the bed, he’d clung onto him, inescapably trapped him between his thighs, as if he’d drown if he let go. Carl was charmed by his possessiveness: maybe not last night, and maybe not always, but certainly right now. 

He made quick but sloppy work of slathering the Vaseline on and tossed the jar aside, dipping his body down into Peter’s grasping arms and legs and arranging himself hurriedly in place before he slid, in one indelicate thrust, entirely inside Peter’s body and paused, a gnarled moan following the suddenness of the action. Peter matched it with a sing-song gasp, his eyes slamming shut and his fingers digging into Carl’s waist where his clinging hands lay. 

Carl hovered another moment, suspended inside him, looking so hard at Peter’s face that Peter felt that glare, opening his eyes to meet Carl’s eyes, seeing the way they somehow shook, and shimmered, with an energy about to be monstrously unleashed. A pant rose in Peter’s chest, several swift breaths in the stillness, and then it was chaos: Carl inhaled, and swung his hips forward and forward, long, hard thrusts that jolted Peter’s body each time. Still he held onto him, so hard that his finger’s were leaving imprints on Carl’s skin, and followed that motion, met it every time, their bodies smashing together along with a chorus of heavy, animalistic breaths. 

Peter felt overcome, spun around, utterly brainless - he felt as if he was only sensation from head to toe, the thoughts in his head no more coherent than the series of open-mouthed gasps coming from his throat, one after the other. But still he wanted even more, to feel more, to be murdered by all that sensation: so he tilted his head up to be kissed, and he was at once, Carl’s head twisting and his mouth coming down, tongue rolling into Peter’s mouth with the same slow and hard rhythm he was beating down on Peter’s body beneath him. 

Then it all sped up: Carl hoisted himself up out of that kiss, onto his hands and with a wince of pleasure accompanied by low moan in his throat - an involuntary reaction that looked stunningly beautiful to Peter - he flew into fluid, fast, relentless momentum, staring down at Peter all the while, staring him in the eyes with lustful determination. It was so gratifying to be looked at that way, so enjoyable to be the source of so much pleasure, that Peter smiled at him, smiled at Carl wicked and wide until Carl smiled back, raised his eyebrows, and fucked that little bit harder. 

They carried on for what felt like forever - Carl dipping his face down to kiss Peter periodically, Peter straining upwards to be kissed every few minutes in turn; their bodies growing entirely wet and sticking, each kiss now salty with sweat beading on their lips. Peter’s mind cleared only to form the thought that loved this, loved every second of it, loved the sensation of Carl’s torso smacking into his, loved the mean, untamed stabs of his cock, loved his ashen, liquor breath, his sweet spit in his mouth. It felt so good, and nothing but good, not a drop of darkness in it, not today, as if it was the only pure thing on earth. 

Peter was jolted out of his head-spinning sedation when after several more minutes of frenetic motion, it all ground to a sudden halt. Carl stopped and collapsed onto his elbows - really collapsed, like he’d briefly lost control of his body.  
“Are you alright?” Peter asked him, moderately alarmed - then he noticed all the peachy flush of fucking had drained out of Carl’s cheeks and the warm sheen of sweat on his skin looked like it had been replaced with a cold one.  
“You’ve gone quite pale,” Peter noted.  
“I’m okay,” Carl insisted, hoisting himself up and valiantly back into his quite determined thrusting. He was going to finish this, then he was going to die.  
“Do you want me to get up top?” Peter suggested.  
“Nope,” Carl insisted, throwing his hips forward extra hard to make a point of his ongoing virility - an action which made Peter cry out and forget what he was saying. 

“You know what you can do,” Carl suggested after a minute, between pants, “is finish yourself off, because I’m fairly sure I’m going to faint as soon as I come”.  
That made Peter laugh, loud and uninhibited laughter into the air above his head, at the absurd, sexy, messy chaos of the whole thing. It was genuinely immensely fun, though he did feel bad for poor Carl, whose lack of sleep and poisonous consumption and brutal hangover had finally caught up to him. 

Peter took the suggestion, grabbing hold of his own cock and rapidly going to work on it, relishing the fact that, since Carl was leaving him to his own devices, he was very much, without forewarning, planning to come all up Carl’s sexy, sweaty, swaying stomach, and it was going to be delicious. 

He wasn’t going to need to make much effort to get there either - the scene in front of him was as maddeningly arousing as anything he’d ever witnessed. Just the sheer determination of Carl’s effort, the throes of a wounded beast pushing through a heroic feat of endurance, all for the primal urge to devour and please and indulge. He didn’t know why they were having sex this fantastic after such a rubbish evening, but in that moment Peter didn’t care about how many girls Carl ran off with or how daft many parties Carl went to, as long as at the end of it all he belonged to Peter as much as he did right now, this second, which felt like entirely, like every drop of him was running through him, out of him, and into Peter’s blood stream through their savage collision of bodies. 

Carl, for how generally dizzy and fatigued he now felt, didn’t think it was too bloody bad either. Like Peter, he’d managed to get out of his own rattling skull for a few precious minutes and simply bathe in the joyful indulgence of carnal sin. He felt mad for it, in a way he hadn’t in some time. He also couldn’t remember being quite so aroused, probably not since those first ever encounters he’d had as a lad when sex was entirely new and every touch was like the static shock of a curling, leather whip, held by the mysterious hand of undiscovered exoticism.

It was partly because it all felt like intense debauchery, sleeping with two people in such short succession, though it wasn’t really, in the grand scheme of things. But Carl was ultimately moved for the same reasons Peter was enamoured of it all - it felt like their connection to one another was so powerful that it was somehow only deepened by the outside intrusion. What they were doing together right now felt conspiratorial, secret and sacred, and empowering because of those things. 

More than a bubble, their bond felt like a cocoon, and nothing was more thrilling, more enlivening, than completely wanting the exact same thing at the exact same time as someone you adore, even it’s the worst thing possible for you both. And maybe it was, but Carl really didn’t give a fucking toss at this minute. 

However, regardless of all the brilliant shagging, he was probably going to have a heart attack if he didn’t wind this up shortly. It was already beating wildly against his rib cage in a manner excessive even for the physical exertion. And just then, just as Carl keenly took in the sight of Peter stroking his own cock fluidly against Carl’s stomach, Peter woozy-eyed gazing between Carl’s face and down between them, catching glimpses of Carl’s cock vanishing inside him, his mouth open slackly to gorgeous, whiny little gasps, exactly then - Carl imagined, for a few protracted seconds, what he might look like, laying underneath Peter, while Peter did this to him. 

As soon as the thought took hold, a shot of heat exploded through his torso and up into his belly, like a backdraft in a house fire, and he groaned, a guttural sound, truly from somewhere deep inside him. Any other time Carl might have stopped himself thinking it, imagining it, but if knew if he held onto it another few moments it was going to burst forth into the most spectacular orgasm. So he let himself think it, see it, imagine it. Even as he watched Peter’s lip curl, his eyes crinkle shut, his teeth clench, heard the sound of closure he’d learned well - that long, airy whistle that ended in a clipped growl - even as he felt the wet, hot splash of Peter’s come travel across his stomach, and looked down to watch Peter work those last drops greedily onto his skin as he sighed and sighed. Through all of it, he imagined them trading places. 

Peter’s eyes sprung open again, looked to Carl with such perfect, innocent satisfaction, that Carl felt he’d gone entirely mad - with the last of his remaining human strength he clasped his arms around Peter’s shoulders and effortlessly tumbled them round till Peter was up on top of him, Carl on his back, Peter impaled deliciously on top of him. It took Peter only a split second of discombobulation before he adjusted to the change of position and sat back down, hard, feeling Carl’s cock reach that invasive, addictive depth inside him, before he leaned forward, and briskly, energetically, thrust down upon him while Carl laid still, stunning and woozy, his hands holding onto Peter’s shuddering thighs, letting him work. 

Carl wanted Peter on top of him, he wanted to feel pinned beneath him, he wanted Peter’s face panting above his own, he wanted to feel the way he thrust his hips, the speed he moved at, the rhythm of it. From that vantage point, flat on his back, looking up at Peter, with his concentrated, furrowed brow, his strained arms, his whole body working to make him come, Carl could convincingly pretend, just for a second, that Peter was inside of him, and that extra second was all it took. The heat exploded through his core once more, taking everything inside him with it. 

Carl’s hands shot up to grab Peter’s hips, to pull him down into those last few thrusts as he came, stupidly, blindingly hard, so much so that none of his usual sounds came out of his mouth, instead he just gasped, “fuck, fuck, fuck”, dragged Peter down by the neck and sunk his teeth into it, not at all gently. 

Peter groaned at the pain, doubly at the thrill. He couldn’t remember either of them getting off with such ferocity, not since the very first time they’d had sex. Though that had come with all sorts of unpleasant and confusing caveats, it was nonetheless the sort of intense only new things could be. And something about today felt new, felt fresh in the same way, though neither of them yet understood why. 

Peter gave Carl a soft, sweet kiss, then one on his clammy forehead too, before he finally climbed off him. They lay beside one another wordlessly, both exhausted, for a good few minutes, till Peter attempted to curl into a cuddle. 

“No, no,” Carl said, holding him off and gesturing at the not insignificant tide mark of wetness across his torso and tummy.  
“Can you do something about this?” he asked, again gesturing over the mess Peter had left all over him, and tossing Peter his ridiculous bloomers, which happened to be the closest thing to hand.  
“Not with those!” Peter cried. “They’re silk!”  
They weren’t, which made Carl snigger all the more at his reaction.  
Peter snatched them away and reached over the bed, dragging Carl’s shirt up off the floor instead.  
“Don’t, that’s my...” Carl started, at which point there was no use arguing because Peter was already lovingly soaking up the wetness with the sleeve. Ah well. It was that kind of day. Nothing mattered much. 

Once he’d finished towelling off Carl’s stomach Peter felt compelled to lean down and kiss it, right where he’d just left a sticky trail now largely erased.  
Carl smiled, made an affectionate little grunt, and raked his fingers through Peter’s hair as he laid two, three more kisses on that sensitive spot. 

Carl thought for a moment about how the first time Peter had climbed up on him to have sex in that confronting position, he could barely stand it, he felt so weirdly emasculated. At least at first. But now he’d just experienced earth shattering pleasure over not only the position but the implication of how else he might allow Peter to go bouncing atop him. Soon as he thought it, now in cold post-orgasmic clarity, a pulse - just a minute current - of anxiety accompanied the fantasy. Best not give it any more headspace today, he decided. 

Peter had laid down beside Carl’s limp form and was lovingly gazing at him, over all of him, which was still on lurid display. Instead of scrambling for the covers, Carl felt compelled to give Peter a glance back, casting his eyes from his curled toes, up his thin legs and along all those secret ranges, not lingering but clearly looking, then up his chest, along his beautifully constructed shoulders, up to his now slightly blushing, cherubic mug. When their eyes met, Peter blushed properly, and laughed, in just a quiet, shy exhale through his nose. He wasn’t normally bashful about being naked at all, and he hadn’t really been shy around Carl till now either. There was just something about Carl looking so obviously and properly at him, in the bright yellow lamp light, for what was really the first time, that made Peter feel truly seen, in way that was both heart-swelling and a tad embarrassing. 

Carl was giddily charmed by Peter’s response, by the innocence of their juvenile, stolen glances, especially after the somewhat pornographic sex they’d just had. He quashed Peter’s shyness under an inviting kiss, which Peter readily fell into. They kissed a little more, then Carl settled down into the nook of Peter’s neck, the exhaustion he’d held off now leaden in him. 

Peter snuggled against him, kissed Carl’s forehead, then the tip of his nose, and found himself dreamily, mindlessly saying, before he caught himself to stop it, “God I love you”. 

Peter’s breath caught in his throat and he waited for a flinch, or a standard too-quick response from Carl, meant to crush the meaning that those words really had when Peter said them just like that: without promoting or reason, just from the heart. But Carl didn’t finch and he didn’t say something to buffer it. He just kissed Peter softly behind the ear, where his lips lay, and mumbled into his hair, “I love you too”. 

When Carl did that, said it back just like that, Peter hoped, his heart soaring, he hoped, that Carl has heard him - really heard his meaning. He didn’t know if he did, but he wanted to believe he had. And above that he wanted, like he’d so optimistically planned just weeks ago, to say it to Carl, to tell him, in a way that Carl could not mistake his meaning.

Carl did hear it, as much of it as he let himself hear, and every time Peter said it to him, he heard it a little more. And even though he’d force himself to act oblivious, inside and outside his head, to what it really meant, he heard it, and he wanted to hear it. 

“You should sleep,” Peter said gently, after a period of silence during which Carl was clearly beginning to doze.  
“I have to eat something,” Carl said regretfully, because he really did just want to sleep. But if he went down now he’d wake at some ungodly hour, dying of hunger with nothing in the fridge but half a can of mouldy beans.  
“Have a nap, and I’ll go get us something,” Peter offered, untangling them both from the bedding and tucking Carl in.  
“That would be grand,” Carl replied, giving Peter‘s head a scruff in thanks.  
“What do you fancy?” Peter asked.  
“Something exceptionally easy to eat... Pizza,” Carl said. “And beer”.  
Peter nodded, happy enough to organise those two things.  
“You nap, I’ll call for pizza and go get some beer while I’m waiting,” he plotted aloud, more for his benefit than Carl’s.  
“Sounds lovely,” Carl mumbled, and proceeded to properly nod off. 

Peter got out of bed, got dressed and fetched his phone to ring up for a delivery. But first, he went through Carl’s pockets. He might love Carl with all his heart, but he wasn’t paying for his pizza. He’d pitch in for the beer though, he decided, if there was a good special at the corner shop.


End file.
